


A Circlet of Weirwood

by kitkatkaylie



Series: The Winter's Queen [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Family, Family Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow Knows Something, Minor Ellaria Sand/Val, Minor Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell, Multi, Past Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark, Post - Red Wedding, Queen in the North, Slightly darker than the previous one, Still lighter than Game of Thrones, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-01-02 13:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 105,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21162575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitkatkaylie/pseuds/kitkatkaylie
Summary: Winterfell may be back in Stark hands, but that does not mean the kingdoms Sansa rules are safe, with Lions to the South, Dragons to the East, and the Others in the Far North, danger is on all sides.Brynden Tully is just wondering when the hell he became a parental figure to his nieces and nephews.An AU where family still counts for something in Westeros, where a queen is crowned, and where the pack survives.





	1. Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the second work in this series! 
> 
> This is once again going to be a blend of book and show canon and I would remind you once more that this series will not be Daenerys friendly.

“We found him like this Your Grace, it isn’t a pretty sight mind you.” The guard said, opening the doors to the kennels, “He refuses to move without orders from his ‘master’.”

Sansa nodded curtly at the guard, she did not know who this man might be, but she was not unfeeling. For someone to be sleeping in the filth of the kennels, in a state so bad the guards were cringing, they must have been there unwillingly.

“Hello?” She called out, approaching the bundle of rags, “Could you turn your face to me please? I have food and water for you.”

The bundle sat up, to reveal a painfully thin man, wounds still visible above the line of what was once a tunic. A haggard face, surrounded by limp white hair, a face that contained a set of hauntingly familiar green eyes.

“Theon?” She whispered in shock.

The noise caused the man to flinch, “Reek, reek, not Theon, Master will be angry if he hears that name. Reek please.” He rasped, air whistling oddly through the gaps she could see where teeth used to be.

Sansa stormed forwards and stood over Theon.

“Your name is Theon Greyjoy. You grew up here, you played with my brothers. You betrayed your king and burned his home. You are Theon.”

He looked up at her with wide eyes, seeming to see her properly for the first time.

“Sansa?” He rasped, “I didn’t kill them. Take my head please but I promise I didn’t kill them.”

His voice filled with hysteria as he lunged forwards and clutched at her skirts. The guards made to move on him at the movement but Sansa raised a hand to stop them.

She tried to reason with him, but he just continued to promise that he didn’t kill ‘them’ whoever they were.

Eventually she gave up and merely gestured to the guards, “Please escort him to one of the rooms in the west towers. Remove anything that might be used as a weapon from the room and arrange for someone to remain outside at all times until I tell you otherwise.”

The guards nodded to her, and attempted to drag Theon to his feet. When it failed the taller merely slung him over his shoulder and marched out, ignoring the kicking feet and hitting fists.

Sansa stood for a minute more in the stink of the kennels, she now had another decision to make, another life in her hands.

* * *

It was strange, to sit in the chair that had belonged to her father. Strange to sit at the head of a table of lords, in a castle she had once left expecting to never return to except for visits. Strange to look over a sea of people and know they were all there because of her.

It should have been Father.

It should have been Robb.

And yet it was her.

“My lords, there is much we have to speak of before the trial this afternoon, much to be discussed now the traitors have been removed.” She held her head high and made sure to look each lord in the eye, the way she had seen her father do, “I have sent summons to those who did not assist us, to House Karstark, to House Dustin, to House Ryswell. They will answer for why they did not pledge their support to our cause.”

The thundering of fists on tables met her words, the lords showing their appreciation that she would not be letting those who betrayed their promises to her family go without answering for their choices.

She allowed them to make the noise for a moment longer before she held up her hand to ask for quiet.

“But there is more pleasant business to attend to as well, my lords. Two unclaimed holds rest in my kingdoms, the Dreadfort and the Twins are currently without owner, and loyalty should be rewarded. Lady Tyene, I ask that you step forwards.” She waited for her sworn shield to step forwards, “I would gift you and yours the Twins, as a reward and thanks for the loyal service of you and your family in the reclamation of your sisters. I would ask that you chose your House name and sigil so that all may know the creation of a new House in the Riverlands.”

Tyene’s face was a picture, her eyes wide with shock and her mouth slightly open. Ellaria was the same, her hand was clutching at Oberyn’s sleeve hard enough that the man was openly wincing, and even he looked stunned by her declaration.

“Th-Thank you, Your Grace.” Tyene all but whispered.

Sansa smiled at her, her shield deserved a hold to call her own, so that she was not reliant on others for her future fortunes. It was the least she could do for the family who had smuggled her out of Kings Landing with no reason other than affection for her uncle and a sense of justice.

The lords mostly looked approving at her decision, and she knew that those who were not were being noted by her uncle and brother.

Her second decision would be far less controversial, and likely to be something that people were already expecting. She waited until Tyene was sat once more and then made her second pronouncement.

“Prince Jon Stark, please come forward.”

Her brother looked slightly apprehensive as he stepped forwards, but she could see both Arya and Rickon trying not to grin as they worked out what was coming.

“For your bravery and success in the Battle for Winterfell, for your work as ambassador to the Free Folk, for your care and love for our family, I grant you and your descendants the Dreadfort and the lands around it.” She smiled as she spoke, and at her words Arya and Rickon both allowed their grins to shine through.

Jon just looked like he couldn’t quite believe her words, like he thought he was dreaming. His eyes looked at her with such hope, pleading that she was not conducting some cruel jape.

Her smile developed into a proper grin, “The Dreadfort is yours, dear brother. I trust you will be far more loyal than its last owners.”

He fell to his knee in front of her, “Thank you, Your Grace, for this honour.”

She bid him rise and told him that it was no less than he deserved, that far worthier of it than many she could name.

He returned to his position at the head table, a pleased grin on his face.

Sansa could have ended the meeting there, but she had more business to attend to that she did not wish to postpone.

“There are two final matters, my lords. First, while the North traditionally did not have a hand, I am young yet and would name my Uncle, Ser Brynden Tully as Hand of the Queen, so that he might advise me and assist me with ruling. Secondly, I would abolish a law forced onto us by the Targaryen invaders and their Faith of the Seven, from this day forth, in the kingdoms I rule, man may marry man, and woman may marry woman.”

There was uproar at her words, shouting and screaming, and yet pleased faces dotted throughout.

“My lords.” Sansa spoke firmly and waiting for them to quiet, she did her best to channel her mother scolding them to ensure her words were listened to. “My lords. I will not condemn many of our allies among the Free Folk for loving who they love. Not when the Old Gods do not condemn such a practice.”

Her tone had worked, and men who were previously screaming sat there with faces like scolded children.

She chanced a glance at her uncle, who sat there with a stunned look on his face. She had not informed him of the change she planned to make in the law, wanting it to be a pleasant surprise for him.

Sansa could see that Rickon and a few of the other lords had began to get antsy from being sat so long. She dismissed them all and then collapsed in her chair, hoping she could have a rest before the trial and execution of Bolton.

* * *

The sky was coloured for the Starks, heavy grey and white clouds hanging over them all. An omen from the Old Gods, a sign that the agreed with the choice she had made. With the victory they had won.

A scaffold had been built specially, outside of the walls of the castle, so that all might bare witness to the removal of the traitor.

“Lord Roose Bolton, you stand accused of treason, of the murder of your king, of breaking Guest Right. You stand accused of allowing atrocities and torture to be committed beneath your roof.”

The trial was easier this time, but whether it was due to the practice she had had or the fact she was staring into the eyes of her brother’s murderer, she did not know.

“Do I not get to deny those accusations? Do I not get the chance to defend myself?” Bolton asked mildly.

Sansa raised a single eyebrow, “You forfeited the right to speak in your defence when you turned down my mercy. With that refusal you admitted your guilt, this is not a trial Lord Bolton, this is a sentencing.”

The lords cheered at her words while the smallfolk looked at her with awe and love. She had already known she would not allow Bolton to spew his poison or vitriol before an audience, she just did not realise it would be so well received.

“Do you have any final words, Lord Bolton, before I separate your traitorous head from your neck?” She asked, holding the sword firm in her hand, re-familiarising herself with its weight.

“Your brother cried like a babe as he died, and you will meet the same ending. My only regret is that I did not rape your mother before her throat was cut.” Bolton spat, and Sansa felt a bolt of rage shoot through her veins.

“In my own name, I, Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, the Trident and the Vale, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm; sentence you to die.” She raised Long-Claw and aimed carefully for Bolton’s neck. Before she swung the blade, she whispered words that only Bolton could hear, “Robb Stark sends his regards.”

It was easier to cut through the neck with the Valyrian steel blade, one swift chop and the head rolled on the platform amid cheers and celebrations from the crowd. The blood sprayed out once more, catching her skirt and a few droplets even reaching her face, but Sansa stood firm.

The urge to be sick emerged once more but she did not let it out, she had to send a message of strength to the people she led, especially as she had no great feats in battle to attach to her name.

At least Roose Bolton’s execution would be the only one for the day, while his bastard was under lock and key, they did not have evidence against him, merely hearsay. Sansa was hoping that either Theon would be ale to speak against him or that they would find evidence at the Dreadfort. With Theon’s current mental state, she knew the second was far more likely.

Theon was at the edge of the crowd, supported by two guards, and while she had not yet advertised his presence, she knew he needed to see that one of his tormenters was dead.

Sansa gazed out over the crowd, over her people, hoping she conveyed the same sort of quiet strength she had always admired in her father.

“My lords, my ladies, my people, you honour me and mine with your presence. Today we stand, a step closer to the Red Wedding being avenged. Today we stand, free of the tyrants that have sought to break us. Today we stand united, Northerner, Riverlander and Valeman alike. Today we stand victorious. And this is something I can only thank you for. Without the support of each of you, without the support of our gracious allies, we would not be here. Tonight, my friends, we will celebrate, and tomorrow we shall start to root out the last of the traitors to our cause.”

Her words rang out clearly and the cheers started anew once she had finished, the prospect of celebrations and bloodshed a joy to every Northerner there. And over it all the howls of direwolves rang, a haunting sound, a symbol more than anything that the Starks had returned home.

The Boltons had filled the cellars of Winterfell with supplies of their own and it was these that they were going to dig into to allow everyone to celebrate, it might have been a little frivolous on the verge of winter but there was still time for the last harvests to come in, and it would likely be the last chance for a celebration before the winter ended.

The mead and ale and wine would pour freely, the musicians would play, and all those who had supported them would celebrate long into the night.

But first, she desperately needed to change and wash the blood from her face.

* * *

The Great Hall of Winterfell was full of laughter, music and joy, in a way it had not been since her family was last whole. It was full of the lords of her kingdoms, her bannermen, familiar faces from her childhood and she tried not to let the pangs in her chest show at those who’s faces were missing.

She held her goblet close, full of watered wine that she sipped slowly, her uncle had advised her against becoming silly from drink and she had little taste for it anyway. Arya had pouted at their uncle’s words, but had brightened once Sansa had mentioned that she could perhaps invite her friend to accompany her to the feast.

Arya had gleefully done so, and ended up gigging in the corner with Gendry, their heads close together and from the pointing Sansa was pretty sure they were mocking the lords in attendance. Once Sansa would have been horrified by that, but as long as her sister was smiling, and the lords in question did not hear about it, she found she did not care.

Rickon had attached himself to Ser Davos, the man and his king being invited for propriety’s sake, and was eagerly wringing the man for stories of his time as a smuggler, and the tale of how he had brought food to Storm’s End during the siege. The knight seemed quite happy to indulge him, even with Stannis Baratheon glaring daggers at anyone who came near.

Her uncle had disappeared, as had Prince Oberyn, and she supposed they had gone to have a private celebration of their own. Lady Ellaria and Tyene were tucked in a corner with a Free Folk woman, and Lady Maege, vicious movements of their wrists meaning they were likely talking about something bloodthirsty.

Ser Jaime had not been invited to the feast, his presence likely to be taken as an insult by her lords, but she’d had wine and food sent to his room, along with Lady Brienne so that they might have a minor celebration of their own.

She’d had food sent to Theon’s room as well, although it was doubtful he would eat it. He had done little but cower in the corner since they had found him in the kennels.

Sansa sipped at her wine again, and cast another appraising eye over the hall, she could not se her brother anywhere unless…

She titled her head slightly and saw familiar black curls just tufting over Tormund’s shoulder. Jon was with his Wildling then, good. She was sure something had passed between the two of them, they were touching each other than before. Hopefully her brother had finally seen what was before his eyes all along.

“Your Grace.” Sansa turned to see Ser Garlan and his wife, the pair look happy to be inside stone walls once more, if still cold in the Northern Autumn.

“I hear congratulations are in order once more, my lord.” Sansa said, “Your sister is queen once again.”

Ser Garlan winced, “In name only, I am afraid. Her husband is a child after all.”

Sansa took another sip to hide the jealousy that burned in her gut at the thought of Margaery married to anyone, even if it was to Tommen Waters.

“With any luck she will be free of him soon enough, your sister is far too lovely to be wasted on any Lannister.”

Leonette placed a delicate hand on Sansa’s arm, “My goodbrother has asked that we remain with you for as long as you require us to, has asked that we might broker an agreement of some sort to help you with restoring the stores of your kingdom now that rebuilding has begun. He also requests that you might contact him on the matter of the Iron Islands, as they have caused trouble for both our Houses.”

Sansa smiled, “Of course, my lady, I should be happy to. Happier still to come to an agreement to feed my starving people. Your family is most kind to assist my family so.”

“If supporting you helps us to avenge Renly Baratheon then my family is pleased to offer assistance, Your Grace.” Ser Garlan shrugged, before gaining a wicked look, “It helps of course, that Prince Oberyn asked my brother on behalf of your uncle. Willas is quite infatuated with the both of them.”

At some point the news of the men her uncle had bedded would not surprise Sansa, but that was unlikely to happen any time soon. Spots of colour made their way onto her cheeks and she gently excused herself from the conversation. 

Hopefully Jon would be willing to talk to her, she had no desire to listen to talk of her uncle’s exploits.

He was among a little knot of Free Folk, each of them laughing uproariously at something and the sound tugged a genuine smile to her lips.

They parted before her, providing Sansa with a view of something she really had never wanted to see. The knowing and amused looks they exchanged made more sense at the sight before her.

Jon was straddling Tormund’s lap, his arms around the man’s neck and his mouth firmly pressed against Tormund’s; Tormund’s hands were on Jon’s backside.

The spots of colour bloomed into a full blush, the horrifying image of her older brother kissing someone forever burned into her mind. It was not who he was kissing, she was rather glad in fact that Jon had finally pulled his head out of his arse, but instead the intimacy of it before her.

She coughed firmly, a sound her mother used to make when she had found one of her children causing mischief, and Jon and Tormund sprang apart. Jon’s head whipped around to her so fast she would be shocked if his neck didn’t hurt.

“Sansa?” His voice was a strangled squawk and his face slowly turned the same colour as a Lannister banner.

“Having fun Jon?” Her voice was drier than the Dornish sands, despite her cheeks matching Jon’s for colour. “I would remind you, dear brother, that you have a room of your own. And that while your affection is no longer unlawful, there are still unpleasant people in the room just looking for the opportunity to make trouble.”

Tormund’s face had gone from amused to serious as she spoke, he understood who she spoke of without being obvious, he had seen those Lords who had looked displeased at her order just as she had.

“Aye, yer Grace, we’ll practise a bit of discretion for now.” He said, moving his hand to cradle Jon’s neck.

He gently pushed Jon to the floor and Sansa glanced away as her brother swayed unsteadily. She had no wish to see her brother fall to the floor because he had been kissed too much. No sister would.

Well, except maybe the Targaryens or Cersei Lannister.

“Away with you both.” She sighed, wishing she had thought to have a proper drink instead of watered wine. It might have made this whole interaction a whole lot more painless.

Maybe she would just join Rickon in listening to Ser Davos, perhaps his stories would be useful in the future and it was unlikely he would say anything that might traumatise her.


	2. Brynden

Brynden had left to secure the Dreadfort almost immediately, it was little under a day’s hard ride to the fortress and they could not leave it as a rallying point for any traitors remaining. He had orders to bring any prisoners in the dungeons back to Winterfell with him, in the hopes that any whose only crime had been loyalty to the Starks could be helped.

Or at least, that had been his niece’s reasoning. He knew she hoped desperately that people who had served her family in her childhood yet lived, that not all the familiar faces had been lost to the cruelty of the Boltons. He would not strip that hope from her, not unless it was going to put her in danger.

Jon had accompanied him, to be introduced to the Smallfolk as their new lord, and he knew that the lad was struggling with that thought. With the thought of lordship over such great tracts of land, where such atrocities had occurred, when he had once before only hoped to join the Night’s Watch or perhaps be granted a small hold by his father.

He was also pouting over Tormund being left behind, the Free Folk man had agreed to keep an eye on Sansa, Arya and Rickon for them, something Brynden and Jon were grateful for, but Jon was obviously keenly feeling the separation. Brynden didn’t blame him, the two had been living almost on top of one another for nearly a year, and it must be strange for them to suddenly be apart.

They had stopped to make camp as soon as their scouts had spotted the Weeping Water, the sight of the river meaning they were but an hour from the former home of the Boltons. They perhaps could have pressed onwards, but tiredness caused a soldier’s death just as surely as a cruel commander.

The attitude in the camp had been subdued, everyone had heard horror stories of the Dreadfort, and even riding on the high of taking back Winterfell with minimal losses people were scared. There wasn’t the singing you would usually expect to find, nor the laughing, instead the soldiers just talked quietly and jumped at unexpected sounds.

As dawn broke, they set off once more, riding hard until the towers and spikes of the Dreadfort loomed before them, the black rock like a scar against the pink and orange clouds.

Brynden shouted an order and immediately the banners were raised high, the drum began to pound a rhythm that could be felt in the air, and the horns began to blow loud enough to startle birds from the trees.

But then something strange happened.

No sooner were they in sight of the gates then the Bolton banners fell and the gates opened wide. People streamed out from the gates, but they were not soldiers, they wore no armour, carried no weapons.

The smallfolk of the castle had opened it to them and, while the potential for it to be a god thing was there, it had Brynden tensing, fearful of a trick. There was always the potential that some particularly enterprising commander wished to free his lord or claim some lands by holding a Prince of the North and the Hand of the Queen hostage.

The single thing that made him relax enough that his knuckles were not white around the hilt of his sword was the lack of anticipation on any of the faces before him. There was fear, yes, but that was to be expected in the shadow of the Dreadfort and in the view of an approaching army. But a lack of anticipation meant it was unlikely they were waiting for something to happen.

The host entered the courtyard, Brynden and Jon at its head, and as their horses came to a complete stop so did three people kneel in the mud.

“My lords,” A dour man spoke, still kneeling. “I am Walten, the Steward of this Keep. We surrender to you.”

Finally someone was sensible enough to surrender. Sansa would be pleased.

“We accept your surrender. Order all your men to stand down and hand their weapons over, hand the keys to the fortress over to us and we promise you that none shall be harmed.” Brynden ordered.

The man lumbered to his feet, accompanied by the Maester of the Dreadfort and a man Brynden assumed to be a captain of the guard.

He waited as orders were barked out by the steward, it was only when the weapons were in a pile on the ground in front of him, that Brynden did dismount, closely followed by Jon and the others.

“I trust you received the raven we sent, Roose Bolton is dead, his bastard awaiting trial. Queen Sansa has gifted the Dreadfort to her brother, Prince Jon Stark.” Brynden gestured at Jon who stepped forwards, a solemn expression on his face.

The men fell to their knees once more, before their new liege lord. Relief filled the faces of some, had they perhaps been worried that the bastard would be given leave to return to his ancestral home? Or that it might have been passed onto the widow of Bolton?

“My Lord, the household is at your service.” The steward said, and Jon shifted uncomfortably.

“Thank you, ser. The queen has requested that we do a full inventory of the castle, including those held in the dungeons. We will also be holding interviews with every member of staff, with the hope of finding out what exactly had been going on under my family’s noses.”

A brief look of fear flashed across the steward’s face, although whether it was at the prospect of speaking to his lord or at some hidden crime of his being discovered, Brynden did not know.

“We will see the dungeons first; I will not have unnecessary suffering go one when I have power to stop it.” For a moment Brynden saw Ned Stark reborn as Jon spoke, had the former lord of Winterfell not said the same thing when ordering his men to assist people in the wake of the sack of Kings Landing at the end of the rebellion?

“Of course, my lord. Locke here will show you around the dungeons.”

A thin weaselly man, who looked like he might have some Frey blood stepped forwards and gestured for them all to follow him to a set of steps leading down from the courtyard.

Brynden ordered a small contingent of men to follow them down into the dungeons, the castle might have surrendered but that didn’t mean he trusted any man who had once served the Boltons.

The dungeons were as you would expect in a place called the Dreadfort, a sense of terror and misery permeated the freezing air. The dripping of water and moans of pain echoed the corridors, and Brynden felt a shiver go down his spine at the thought of the atrocities that must have occurred within these walls.

The man leading them through the dungeons had a look of nonchalance on his face, as though he could not see how horrific the surroundings were.

A whimper from a cell drew their attention, and Jon rushed to the bars, raising his torch so he could peer inside. Whatever he saw inside caused a pained expression to cross his face and he snapped at their guide to open the door.

Jon entered the cell and swung his cloak off his shoulders to wrap around whoever resided inside, speaking softly the way Brynden had witnessed him speaking to Rickon before. It took some coaxing but he eventually managed to get the resident of the cell to stand and gently guided them into the corridor.

The girl, for it was a young girl perhaps only ten years of age, cringed upon seeing them and cowered at the sight of their guide.

“Its alright Beth, you’re safe now.” Jon comforted her gently, but she only looked up at them with too-large North dark eyes. “Brynden, this is Beth Cassel, she grew up with us in Winterfell and is one of Sansa’s dear friends.”

The mention of Sansa caused the girl to look up at Jon, and Brynden wondered if this was who his niece had been hoping they would find.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I am Ser Brynden Tully, and I promise you that you are safe now. We will take you home with us, I am sure that my dear niece will be pleased to see you again.”

The girl squeaked and hid her face in the furs at the neck of Jon’s cloak. Brynden cast a critical eye over her, she was thinner than any child should be and wounds littered her arms, but her clothing, while ragged, was untouched.

“Jon, why don’t you lead her up to the kitchens and get her something to eat. I can deal with anyone else down here.” Brynden suggested.

Jon shot him a grateful look and began to lead the child out of the dark of the dungeons. Brynden watched them go with slight envy, it was quite likely the child would be the least harmed out of anyone they found festering in the cells.

* * *

The relief they had felt upon returning to Winterfell had been palpable, they had left men at the Dreadfort, to keep it firmly under Stark control. He knew Jon was planning on returning with a number of the Free Folk, but not for a while, he wanted to spend more time with his siblings first, which Brynden could not blame him for.

The reunion between Beth Cassel and his nieces had been sweet to behold, for all that he had heard that Arya did not get on with Sansa’s friends, she had seemed very pleased to see a familiar face.

Being in Winterfell led itself to a different set of problems though, part of the agreement with the Vale was that his nephew would come to bend the knee to Sansa once Winterfell was in their hand again, and he had been left to sort out the arrangements for that event to happen. And that meant he had to interact with Petyr Baelish.

“It must be so nice to know that your dear sweet niece is willing to anger half the lords on your behalf.” Baelish simpered, and Brynden had to resist the urge to box his ears, the way he had when the boy had gotten into some mischief at Riverrun.

“Queen Sansa has a gentle soul. She has no desire to see those who love one another forced to hide that love.” Brynden grunted. He hoped that Baelish got the message he did not want to speak about it, and that he wanted this meeting over and done with so he could spend time with his family.

“But still, to risk displeasing two of her kingdoms by going against their Faith, that is quite some reward for helping her. I wonder what one less scrupulous than yourself would do if they held Queen Sansa’s favour.”

“Lord Baelish.” Brynden snapped, “You will be a part of the retinue accompanying Lord Robert to Winterfell. Lady Alysane and Ser Donnel shall also accompany you. You will sail to your home from White Harbour where Lord Robert will meet you, along with those lords Lady Lysa deems appropriate to join him at Court. They will expect you by the end of the month, so I expect you will wish to start preparing for your journey.”

He savoured the shocked expression on Littlefinger’s face, while it was true a Vale lord did need to go to collect Lord Arryn so that he was reassured, he also wished to get the lord away from his nieces for a while. The way he stared at Sansa, and sometimes Arya, made him cringe and wish for an excuse to slit the lord’s throat.

Brynden waited for Littlefinger to scurry out of the room and down the corridor before leaving himself. He wanted to spend time with his family, and knew exactly where they would be with the sun having set.

He walked through the corridors, the blackened stones slowly being recovered with tapestries and banners, towards the Lady’s chambers. While each child technically had their own room in the castle, they all ended up sleeping in the room that Jon and Arya had insisted on belonging to Sansa. More often than not they ended up sleeping curled together with their wolves, like a pile of puppies in the huge bed that had once belonged to Cat.

The barking of wolves heralded his approach, the noise starting before he even reached the door. It was a comfort to know that as long as the wolves were there no one would sneak up on his nieces and nephews.

As he had thought all of the children (although he was unsure whether he should actually be calling Jon a child, considering what he had walked in on him doing with that Wildling of his) were curled up by the fire, wrapped in furs, with a plate of cakes and a pitcher of juice on the table.

It seemed they were exchanging stories and songs, and although he was greeted as he walked in no other attention was given to his presence, they were all too enraptured by the tale of beyond-the-Wall that Jon was telling.

He sat next to Rickon, and the babe burrowed his way into his lap, sucking on his thumb as he listened with wide eyes.

When the story finished Brynden spoke up, “Would you like to hear a song from the Riverlands, dear ones?”

Edmure would probably kill him if he knew what Brynden was about to do, but what was life without embarrassing your family?

“It’s a very special song, called ‘The floppy fish’.”

He could see Jon stifle his laugh in the fur of his direwolf, likely the lad knew exactly what this song was about, but he didn’t seem like he was going to tell his sisters any time soon. Good that, they needed some of their innocence preserving.

* * *

“Ramsay Snow, you stand accused of using the outlawed practice of flaying on your unwilling victims, you stand accused of conspiracy to commit treason, you stand accused of rape and murder. What do you have to say in your defence?”

The bastard licked his lips and peered up at Sansa, “Your Grace, I- I- my only defence is that my father forced me to undertake those actions. He was a hard man and said it would be me on the cross if I did not do as he ordered. I know it was wrong, Your Grace, but please, let me atone for my sins. Show mercy.”

A murmur filled the hall, all knew of the harshness of the late Lord Bolton, and it was possible that his son was telling the truth. Brynden could read the emotions that flashed across his niece’s face and nodded ever so slightly when she glanced at him, he agreed with the decision she was wavering on.

“Does anyone have anything to say that would counter the defence?” She looked over the crowd with an even gaze, lingering on those who had come from the Dreadfort. There was no response from anyone, and Brynden watched as she took a deep breath, “Ramsay Snow, for your crimes against the North and its people, the punishment would normally be death. But I am feeling merciful. You will take the Black and live out our days atoning for your crimes by guarding the realms of men.”

He ran a critical eye over the hall, cataloguing the reactions of the lords, most looked like they agreed with the sentence Sansa had passed, a few a little disappointed at the lack of bloodshed, but one or two looked displeased by her words. He made sure to memorise those few, they would need careful watching in case they tried to do anything to undermine Sansa’s rule.

The bastard was led out of the room, to the cells he would stay in until they could send him to the Wall, but the business was still not done.

“Lady Bolton. Though you have committed no crime, save being married to one traitor and the granddaughter of another, I cannot give you free reign of the castle or my lands. You will be confined to your room for two moons, until it is evident whether or not you carry an heir to House Bolton. Should that be the case then you will remain here until you give birth, and your child will become a ward of House Stark. Should no babe reside in your belly then you will be returned to your mother’s family.” There was compassion in Sansa’s voice, he knew she had struggled to decide what to do with Walda Bolton, nee Frey. His niece could see what might have happened to herself in the woman whose marriage had been a factor in her brother’s death.

The lady was led, weeping with gratitude back to the small but comfortable tower room she had been assigned, none of the lords looked displeased with Sansa’s decision on that front, and the ladies looked approving of her mercy to one who had just been a pawn in the games of her husband and grandfather.

There was one final person to deal with, one who would almost certainly cause an uproar with Sansa’s decision, but Brynden could not blame her for her choice. Not when she had agonised so long over it, and sought the advice of her siblings as well as himself.

“Prince Theon Greyjoy.” Her words caused a stir among the crowd as the skeletal man was brought to the centre of the hall. “You betrayed the king you had pledged yourself to, your brother in all but name, King Robb. You led an attack on Winterfell and murdered Ser Rodrick Cassel. Your actions led to Winterfell falling to the Boltons and my brothers fleeing into the wilderness.”

Each word she spoke made the man flinch, and Brynden could see him start to rock himself and mouth words in what was likely an attempt to self soothe.

“Despite this treachery, you have suffered far more than your crimes deserved.” Her voice softened imperceptibly, “In light of this you will be shown mercy, until we can treat with your sister you will be held as a prisoner befitting your status should be. You will receive medical treatment and aid in recovery from your torments. This mercy is shown due to the love my brother felt for you, betray House Stark again and your head will join Lord Bolton’s above the gate.”

Greyjoy fell to his knees and sobbed, although whether it was from relief at keeping his life, or grief at not being put out of his misery, Brynden did not know. Little remained of the prideful youth he had known from Robb’s camp, the boy who had boasted of his prowess and had a vanity rivalled by few Brynden had ever met. Instead a husk of a man remained, missing fingers and toes, missing his confidence alongside his teeth. A man who needed to be continuously reminded of his name, lest he start to call himself by the moniker bestowed on him by the Boltons.

Theon had not said who had caused his torment, had not named whether it was the father or son who had committed such atrocities. No servant had spoken up either, all were still too scared of their former masters to even consider it.

He just hoped they wouldn’t come to regret any of the decisions made.


	3. Bran

For a cave belonging to the Children of the Forest there were surprisingly few trees.

Or rather, surprisingly few alive trees.

The entire cave system was made up of what appeared to be trees that had turned to stone, dappled light shone through the ceiling the way it did in a forest, the floor rose and fell in smooth swirls akin to roots, and the walls were the rough smoothness of bark.

Bran spent his time listening to the man who had once been a Hand of the king, who had been a bastard son of Aegon the Unworthy, who had been banished to the Night’s Watch, a man who now claimed the title the Last Greenseer.

The man showed him terrible things, told him terrible things, and yet he was learning. It was easier than ever to run with Summer, easier than ever to slip into the minds of birds and the dreams of Weirwood trees.

Jojen had joined him for some of he lessons, listening in and using some of the information himself if Bran was right. Jojen would often awaken and tell them of things that had happened while they were away from civilisation.

He had old them of Sansa’s crowning, of Arya’s return. Of the Battle for Winterfell and how the castle was back in Stark hands once again. Had told them of how his father had cleared Moat Cailin for Sansa’s armies to pass through and that he missed them all.

He had spoken to Ygritte at one point, and whatever he had said had caused her to burst out in a bright peal of laughter that had echoed around the cave for the rest of the day.

Meera and Ygritte had held no patience for the words of the Bloodraven, they spent the days scouting the areas and hunting for them and the Children of the Forest who still lived, as a thanks for their hospitality. Even with the encroaching winter and dwindling wildlife, it was rare that they came back empty handed and a sort of easy camaraderie had sprung up between the two, helped of course by their enjoyment of teasing others.

Ygritte in particular seemed to enjoy teasing Bran about how his whole family were very pretty, and she seemed to have an especial fondness for referring to Jon as pretty in the same sort of tone she used when talking about Osha.

It was slightly embarrassing to listen to, but he wouldn’t have traded having them there. It was nice to have them all around him, made the separation from his family easier to bear.

* * *

_He was a bird, a snowflake, a leaf on a branch. He was everything and nothing and scared. _

_The building had an aura of horror, as though terrible things had happened there. A half burned wooden keep, the tears and wails of loss still echoing through its corridors and around the burned beams. _

_The air was so cold, cold enough you could almost see it in the air. Cold enough that the breath from anyone living would fill the air. _

_But there were no living here. _

_There were figures everywhere but none were breathing, their eyes the only colour in their pale faces. Bright blue eyes glowing with an unearthly brightness set in faces colourless in only the way that death could bring, faces still set into the agony of their last moments. _

_Free folk men, women and children. Giants and wolves and ice spiders. Men of the Night’s Watch. Each one pale and cold and dead. Each one undead. _

_And overlooking them all figures that seemed to be made of ice itself. _

_An army with no need to sleep. _

_An army with no need to eat._

_An army with one purpose only in mind. _

_And as he observed the army, the army so close to the Wall, he felt eyes boring into his own. _

_He looked up and met the eyes of one of the figures, one with shards of ice coming from his skull in the imitation of a crown. Eyes that were hard and cold and unfeeling. Eyes that spoke of seeing millennia and hatred that had festered for just as long. _

_The eyes bored into him and-_

Bran breathed heavily as he was thrown out of the vision, tears threatened to fall from his eyes at the terror he felt, but he did not let them fall, keeping his eyes squeezed shut instead.

“Do we still have that parchment Jon insisted we bring?” Bran asked without opening his eyes.

He could hear the way Meera and Ygritte startled at his words, they must have thought him asleep. There was the soft sound of rummaging and then a triumphant noise.

“Yes, we still have that parchment, but we have no ravens. We can’t send any messages.” Meera said.

“We don’t need ravens.” Bran opened his eyes and as he did so a flock of robins fluttered to land around them, sweetly chirping and puffing up their red breasts.

Meera and Ygritte both gaped at him, and Bran smiled the same smile he had used when scampering over the walls of Winterfell.

“They need to know about the army amassing near the Wall. They don’t have a lot of time, not if they don’t want to be overwhelmed.” Bran simply said in explanation.

He could see that they understood what he meant, and although the thought of warging for so long was worrying, the thought that he might get to see his family again was heartening. Even if it was though the eyes of a bird.

He scribbled out a quick message for Jon, and another for Sansa. He couldn’t just give the information to Jon, but his brother had the best connections to the Free Folk and would likely know where the keep was and how dangerous the situation truly was. With those details hopefully the lords of the North would take the threat far more seriously. And, well, protocol dictated he had to inform Sansa at least at the same time as he informed anyone else, he just hoped she believed him without too much prompting from Jon.

He held out his hand to the birds and two hopped onto his wrist. He tied the missives to their feet with a thread tugged loose from his tunic and delved into their minds to show them Winterfell and an approximation of the route to get there.

The two fluttered off, followed by the rest of their flock and Bran could only watch them go, hoping that he had imprinted Winterfell well enough in their heads for the messages to be received.

* * *

_He was hungry and tired but the end of his journey was in sight. The stone towers loomed up ahead, the ones he had been looking for although he did not know why, only that it was important. _

_There were bright cloth structures outside the walls, and small plumes of smoke from what must have been hundreds of fires. Men milled about between the structures, in furs and wools and leathers and some in the bright glint of metal. _

_He was so intent on looking at the images below that he nearly flew into a large banner that was flapping in the wind, the grey and white nearly masked against the sky, and yet the fierce wolf emblazoned on it sent a thrill of something through him. _

_He dove down so he was flying around the ramparts of the castle, intent on looking for someone, although he was unsure who or why. _

_The clatter of metal on metal drew his attention and he could see a girl with a long face and brown hair laughing as she fought against a tall woman with pale hair and a sword nearly as big as the girl. The two ducked around each other and laughter filled the air just as much as the clattering of steel on steel. _

_He startled as a howl ripped through the air, fluttering up to perch on a railing as a pack of wolves ran into the courtyard, followed by an equally large pack of children. Most of the children were dressed in pale furs, but one small boy with dark red hair wore the same greys as the banners adorning the walls. This boy was the wildest of the lot, the most fearless, happily roughhousing with the wolves even when the other children would hesitate. _

_He was happy just to watch them for a while, the sight of the children laying filling him with a joy he did not quite understand. Soon enough though they moved on from the courtyard, chased out by people in metal whose hitting each other had been disrupted. _

_He glided around the battlements, still looking for someone in particular. He chirped at the sight of bright red hair, topped with a circle of cold spiky metal, a girl who brought to mind the idea of songs. She was not who he was looking for, but rather who his sibling was, his sibling perched before her and sweetly chirped out a little tune to gather the girl’s attention. _

_The girl gasped in delight at the sight of his sibling, and she reached forward with gentle looking hand to untie the object around his sibling’s leg. The delighted gasp became shocked and she turned and ran inside the keep, but not before telling someone to gift his sibling with food as thanks. _

_Maybe he would get thanks as well when he finally found the person he was looking for. _

_He swooped around the towers, looking carefully. Excitement filled his chest when he caught a glimpse of dark curls and a cloak that was somehow familiar. _

_He landed on the parapets before the man and chirped a greeting, making sure to waggle his leg to draw attention to the thing tied to it. The man with red hair next to him laughed and nudged him and mentioned something about a crow. _

_He did not understand why a crow was mentioned, he looked nothing like one!_

_The man looked at him with wide grey eyes and hesitantly reached for him. He forced himself to stay still, to allow the man to take the object around his leg. _

_The man looked shocked and scared as he gazed at the object in his hands. An absent hand crumbled something before him and he eagerly ate the offered crumbs, filling his aching belly and paying no more heed to what was around him-_

Bran woke up with tears sliding down his cheeks. It had been a dream akin to the wolf dreams he had used to share before knowing what was going on, before knowing what warging was.

He had just been a passenger in the robin’s mind, an observer and nothing more.

And now looking on the things he had seen he knew that what Jojen had promised was true, his family were all safe at Winterfell. Rickon running wild with playmates, and Arya training with a sword the way she had always wanted, and Sansa ruling the keep and conversing with lords, and Jon was still friendly with Tormund, the return to the castle not having any dampener on that friendship.

Bran made no move to stop the tears still tailing down his cheeks, he was so relieved that his family was together, and yet he could not help the feeling of loss. Mother should have been there, scolding Rickon for rolling in the mud; Father should have been there helping Arya with her stances; Robb should have been there joking with Jon. Summer should have been a part of the wolfpack Rickon was chasing, instead of guarding him in this frozen land.

When dawn broke, he still had a soft smile on his face and tear tracks running down his cheeks. His companions were concerned but he waved them off, merely telling them that the letters had arrived at Winterfell. That seemed explanation enough for them, and they sent him knowing looks and thankfully refrained from asking him about what he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of an explanation for this one: because there is no gathering of Free Folk at Hardholme due to them all being through the Wall already the Night King's plans have sped up by quite a bit since he isn't traipsing all over looking for recruits because they are all safely below the Wall. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone who has commented and kudosed so far!


	4. Jon

Jon found himself waking from nightmares about the horrors they had uncovered in the Dreadfort’s dungeons. He shared a bed with his siblings, none of them particularly wished to be apart from each other for the time being and it was nice to know they weren’t alone when one of them undoubtedly woke from a nightmare.

He lay there, calming himself with the snuffles of Rickon’s sleep, and the gentle snores of Arya. The soft woofing of the direwolves asleep in a pile by the dying fire.

Whimpers came from the other side of the bed and he levered himself up so her could peer over Rickon’s sprawled out form to Sansa. Her face was screwed up and she let out pained whimpers and he forgot all his own nightmares in the instant he saw she was suffering. He gently shook at her shoulder to wake her from the terror and her eyes shot open, panicked blue looking around the room until they settled on him.

“Hello there,” He said softly, mindful of the others still sleeping, “Want to talk about it?”

Sansa sucked down a pained breath and Jon found himself untangling Arya from his side and gently swapping places with Rickon so that she could burrow into his side. Her cold nose pressed against his collarbone and he could feel the way she was breathing rapidly in an attempt to quell her sobs.

“I- I dreamt of father.” She whispered softly, and Jon’s arm tightened around her, “I had asked the king for mercy and he said he would grant it. But then he took father’s head and made me look upon it when it was above the city walls. He made me stare at my septa’s head, at the men of the household, Vayon Poole and Alyn and Harwin and all the others.”

Jon reached so she was cradled in his arms and ran a hand soothingly over her hair. “Its not your fault Sansa. None of those deaths were your fault. They were a cruelty done by a bastard born of incest.”

She relaxed as he spoke, as his hand smoothed her hair and kept her grounded in the room, the way their father had done for him when he had had the nightmares all children have. Robb had always gone to his mother, as had the others, but Jon had always been welcomed by Ned Stark.

He held Sansa until her breathing evened out and she slipped back into slumber, and then held her a while longer to check that her dreams were sweet and free of horror.

He himself slipped back into sleep, although not as deeply as before, undoubtedly he would be woken once more by one of his siblings escaping the grip of a nightmare.

* * *

Very little had changed about Jon and Tormund’s relationship on the surface, they continued to train together, to work together and to help facilitate peaceful relations between the Free folk and Northerners, just as they had done before.

And yet now they could hold hands if they so wished (and often Jon wished because Tormund was just so warm), they could kiss if they wished, they could trade soft nothings if they wished.

They still tried to be discreet however, a few of the lords had shot them dangerous looks if they were affectionate openly, and while Jon could have had them punished for their disrespect of a member of the ruling family, he did not want to cause Sansa’s reign any problems. Not when her position was still so tenuous.

Brynden had remained equally as discreet, he knew better than most how the opinions of people like them could affect their lives. Jon could barely imagine Robb refusing to speak to him over his preferences, could barely imagine any of his siblings doing something like that, and yet that was exactly what Hostor Tully had done.

Jon tucked himself further into Tormund’s side, sighing slightly when Tormund pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

They had stolen a few moments of peace in the library, curled up together away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the castle. Rickon was running wild with Free Folk and smallfolk children, under the supervision of Osha, Arya was training and learning with Lady Brienne of Tarth and the Maester, and Sansa was dealing with the problems of the lords.

He tilted his head so that he caught Tormund’s lips with his own, he didn’t think he would ever get bored of exchanging lazy kisses. The act made him feel so very loved, so very cherished, made him feel like he was a part of one of those stories Sansa had used to love.

He was so busy exchanging lazy kisses that he did not notice that others had entered the room until he heard a low chuckle.

“Well aren’t you a pretty picture.” Jon looked up to see Prince Oberyn looking at him and Tormund with lust filled eyes. “Care to join us for some fun later this evening?”

Jon just stared at him, not quite believing what he was hearing.

“We are not inviting my nephew and his partner to join our bed, Oberyn.” Brynden held a longsuffering note to his voice and Jon felt for him until his words registered.

He looked up at Brynden with shock that must have been obvious to all in the room, for Brynden shifted and then set him with a look he had seen directed at Arya and Rickon and Sansa before.

“Aye lad, you heard right. What else am I to call the brother of my nieces and nephews? We may not share blood but you embody my house words as well as any who does carry Tully blood.”

Tormund’s arms tightened around Jon; a gesture Jon was thankful for as he felt like he was going to fall apart. All his life he had wanted to be accepted by Lady Catelyn, for her to treat him as her own child, and now her uncle was fulfilling that wish, was calling him family.

Prince Oberyn pouted and looked at Brynden as though he was a child being forbidden a sweet or toy. Brynden just gave him a tired look, and tugged on his hand.

“Come on, why don’t we see if Hothor Umber wants to join us? I know you’ve been curious about him for a while.”

Jon stared after them as they left, still not quite believing what had just transpired, neither being propositioned or being claimed as a nephew. He broke out of his stupor when he felt Tormund laughing beside him.

He shifted in place and lifted his leg so he was sat straddling Tormund’s lap.

“Shut up.” He muttered, before reaching up to plant another kiss on Tormund’s laughing lips.

Tormund’s hands shifted to Jon’s hips and his laughter stopped at they lost themselves in kissing once again.

* * *

“Theon.” Jon called from the doorway, hoping to gain some reaction. Sansa had asked him to pay Theon a visit and Jon was doing so reluctantly. He had been hurt by Theon’s betrayal, had thought them friends of some sort and for someone he had considered a friend to take their home away and claim to have killed their brothers was hurtful.

“Not that name. not that name. master will be angry. Reek… reek… rhymes with weak and freak and meek.” Theon muttered from the corner; his arms wrapped around his legs defensively.

Jon crossed the room in a few long strides until he was stood above the emaciated form of the man he had grown up with. Up close he could see just how bad a shape his father’s ward was in.

Theon was missing fingers on each hand, toes as well, and his lips sagged strangely as though there was space behind the where there shouldn’t be. His once dark hair had turned white and his skin was the pallid colour gained from a lack of sunlight. Jon could see why Sansa was so distraught after visiting him, why Arya had looked like she was going to be sick after the single time she visited him.

“You are Theon Greyjoy. The pompous arse who once dared Robb to put slugs in my bed. The idiot who thought that snow was salt when you first saw it. The complete cock who found it hilarious whenever my hair was cut by Lady Catelyn.” Jon said, hoping desperately to get through to him, to any small piece of his former friend that remained.

“… prettier than any whore.”

Jon nearly cried with relief at those words. Never had he thought he would be so pleased to hear Theon’s mockery about his features.

“At least I never spent an hour once trying to decide between two identical shirts, when they were going to be covered up anyway.” Jon shot back, and a spark of something filled Theon’s lifeless eyes.

“They weren’t identical. One had yellow embroidery, the other daffodil. They were completely different.” Theon muttered.

A pained expression crossed his face and he curled back into himself on the cold stone floor, avoiding even the rugs that they had ordered brought in knowing of his aversion to furniture.

Jon looked down at him and sighed, he was getting cold just looking at Theon. He knelt down and pulled the far too-light form into his arms and stood, ignoring the way Theon held completely still in fear.

He crossed the room to the bed and placed Theon down gently on the furs, tucking them around him as if he was Rickon. He paid no heed to the absolute stiffness and discomfort radiating through Theon’s body, he wasn’t going to harm him, he just didn’t want him to get ill from the cold.

“Ghost,” He whistled and his direwolf poked his head through the door from where he had been waiting patiently, “Can you go get Grey-Wind for me please boy? Theon needs wolf cuddles.”

The sound of wolf claws skittering down the corridor filled the air, the noise joining the terrified pants that Theon was letting out.

“Grey-Wind?” He breathed, quiet enough Jon was unsure as to whether he had actually heard him, “He died with Robb.”

“The Old Gods sent him back,” Jon said, idly brushing a hand over Theon’s brittle hair, “Him and Lady, as a show that they agreed with Sansa’s reign. It’s one of the reasons why there have been so few dissenters at her being in charge instead of Rickon or myself.”

He felt Theon relax slightly at his administrations, he was still far too tense, but marginally less so that before.

He sat there for a while, keeping up his gentle smoothing of Theon’s hair until he was no longer shivering and almost fully relaxed under the furs. The return of skittering claws made Theon tense up incrementally once again, but he had no other reaction.

Three wolf heads poked around the door; Ghost had brought back not just Grey-Wind but Lady too.

Jon patted gently on the bed and the wolves jumped up. They curled around Theon, half burying him under a mound of fluff until only his face was visible. Jon watched as Theon relaxed even further, relaxed more than one would have thought possible surrounded by apex predators, and his eyes slipped closed.

He slipped out of the room, leaving all three wolves and Theon to their nap, perhaps he would suggest that Grey-Wind remain by Theon’s side until he was more healed. It certainly couldn’t hurt to subject him to the unbridled affection of the wolves. 

* * *

There were some moments when Jon found himself pitying Catelyn Stark of all people, and dealing with Arya and Rickon at dinner was most certainly one of those moments.

“Arya, you know no weapons are allowed on the table.”

“But what about the knives. They’re weapons.”

Jon sighed. He could remember Theon asking that exact question at one meal, and the laughter of he and Robb had filled the hall. Unfortunately he could not remember Lady Catelyn’s response, although he was sure it was suitably withering.

“None of these knives are used to kill people.” It was the only answer he could think of, and he knew she would have a response for him.

“How do you know they haven’t been used to kill people? They could have at some point.”

He’d once heard Arya described as ‘precocious’; he’d also heard her described as ‘a cheeky little shit’. It seemed like she was determined to fit the second of those descriptors that day.

He put down the spoon he had been using to try and convince Rickon to eat his mashed swede so he could look Arya full in the eyes.

“Do you want me to get Brynden to give you that talk about respecting your weapons again? Because I will.”

She removed her sword from the table at that threat, she had sat through that lecture once before and had come out of it looking bored half to death.

Jon watched her until she started to eat the meal before her, he didn’t trust her not to try something again, just to be contrary.

He turned back to Rickon when Arya seemed settled enough, ready to start the battle to get his brother to eat his vegetables once again.

To his great surprise the bowl of swede was empty and Rickon sat there with an angelic smile that instantly made Jon suspicious.

“Was the vegetable nice Rickon? I’m sure it was because you ate it so cleanly! No swede on your hands or around your mouth at all!” he asked in a sockly sweet tone, intent on making his brother squirm slightly.

And squirm Rickon did. He kept shooting glances under the table and Jon looked himself to see what Rickon had been up to.

Shaggydog’s snout greeted him, mashed swede in his fur and a giant wolfy grin on his face.

Jon sat back up and looked at Rickon tiredly.

“You can’t keep feeding your vegetables to Shaggydog.”

Rickon stuck out his bottom lip and raised his chin defiantly.

“Why not? Shaggy likes them and I don’t.”

His saving grace came in a large ginger bundle.

“Because Little Firewolf, if you don’t eat yer vegetables you won’t grow to be very tall at all.” Tormund said, sitting next to Jon and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Is that why Jon’s so short?” Rickon asked, his tone too innocent for him to not know what he was saying, “Because he didn’t eat his?”

“That’s right, that’s why Jon’s so pretty and delicate, its ‘cause he didn’t eat his vegetables. You don’t want to be delicate, do you? I heard you say you wanted to be big and strong.”

He pressed a kiss to the side of Jon’s mouth in apology for his remarks, but Jon wasn’t offended. He knew Tormund valued his skills as a warrior just as much as he liked the way he looked.

“Jon. Can I eat your vegetables?” Rickon suddenly asked, staring intently at Jon’s plate.

Arya opened her mouth, likely to offer her own but Jon was already transferring them across.

“You need to eat all of them mind,” Jon warned his brother, “Else I’ll make sure you have no sweets for the rest of the week.”

Rickon’s eyes widened and he began shovelling the food into his mouth, his manners absolutely atrocious but Jon was too tired to deal with them. Sansa or Brynden could do it when it was their turn to supervise Rickon’s dinner time.

Tormund’s eyes lit up with laughter as if he knew exactly what Jon was thinking. A hand curled around his waist and he was pulled ever so slightly closer to Tormund, so that their sides were almost touching.

Tormund pressed another kiss to his lips, a longer one that conveyed so many things. Jon started to sink into it when a bread roll hit his head.

“Eww, Jon. We don’t want to see that at the dinner table.” Arya complained, another roll in her hand ready to throw, “If you’re going to be all lovey-dovey then go do it elsewhere.”

Jon couldn’t resist it; he stuck his tongue out at his little sister.

“I’m serious Jon,” She whined, “You’re so gross you’d even put Shaggy off his food.”

Jon very highly doubted that. Shaggydog would not be deterred from eating food even if the sky itself was falling.

Tormund let out another laugh, but removed his hand from Jon’s waist, an absence Jon swiftly felt.

“I won’t bother yer brother any more while yer eating then, Little Warrior.” He conceded. He then waggled his eyebrows playfully, “But when you ain’t eating, I shall do as I like.”

Jon could only hope that his blush wasn’t as strong as it felt, although from the laughter of his lover and sister he was not very lucky in that regard.


	5. Arya

Arya had found herself pouting when she was told that Robin Arryn would be coming to visit Winterfell. She had managed to avoid thoughts of the boy she was to marry, had covered them up with training and reacquainting herself with the nooks and crannies of Winterfell. But with him coming to visit she could hide from those thoughts no longer.

She had escaped to the Godswood, looking for peace and quite in which to sulk. Of course, her peace didn’t last for long, not when there were so many people in the castle.

“What’s wrong Little Warrior?” Tormund sat down heavily beside her and Arya sighed.

“My stupid cousin is coming to stay, to bend the knee to Sansa. And to meet me and I just know is going to be awful.” Arya complained. “I’m supposed to marry him in a few years and what if he hates me on sight? What if he hates that I can fight and tells me I’m not allowed to do it anymore?”

“Well then, you be the strong person we all know you are and stand your ground. He’d be a fool to hate you.”

Arya sighed, she understood what Tormund was trying to say, it was irrational to assume he would hate her because she wasn’t like Sansa.

“I don’t understand this tradition of yers, where you force two people to be together. You can’t force love.” Tormund said with a solemn look, “But you can help it to sprout.”

Arya shuffled so that she could look him in the eye. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you should woo him. Court him like he’s a maiden in a song, give him gifts and make him feel special and he’ll fall head over heels for you. He’s a sickly boy with no interest in outdoor pursuits so show him you can care for him and won’t make him take that role and he should love you.”

The words seemed to settle in Arya’s mind, they made sense in a strange sort of way. She would never be the princess in a song, despite the title that now belonged to her, but she could play the part of the knight.

“How would I do that? How would I ‘woo’ him?” She fixed Tormund with a stern expression, the type she had seen on her mother’s face before.

Tormund stroked his beard and looked thoughtful; his eyes fixed to the middle distance as he pondered her words.

“Well Little Warrior, he’s a southerner, he’ll be cold. Give him a coat to keep warm, from a fur you gathered yerself, he’ll likely appreciate that a lot more than any fancy jewel.”

A fur cloak or coat, that was something she could do, and hunting the fur would give her an excuse to leave the castle.

She loved being back at home, being surrounded by her family once more and not having to worry about her next meal or evading people who wanted to kill her, but every so often she found herself longing for the freedoms that being ‘Arry’ had offered her.

If she played her cards right she could possibly convince Jon and Brynden to let her go for a hunt with only Gendry and Nymeria as company, they were all so busy at the moment, ever since the letters had arrived from Bran that they did not let her read. Maybe she could convince them to let her go as a name-day present, it would be an easy one for them to grant, easier to be sure than the lace Sansa had asked for for her eleventh name-day, easier than the steed Robb had asked for for his eleventh name-day.

In fact, it would be the same as Jon had asked for himself, he had asked for a trip for just him and father, a gift that even mother had not protested.

She nodded to herself, that was exactly what she would do. She thanked Tormund and rushed out of the room in a far better mood, she had a plan and Robin Arryn would be wooed like no man had been wooed before.

* * *

The thoughts of her upcoming name-day sent Arya to the solar that had once belonged to their father, and that Sansa now worked out of. She had a request to make of her sister, one that she was scared her sister might laugh at her for.

She pushed open the door and went to sit in front of the desk Sansa was writing on, and waited patiently until her sister looked up before starting to speak.

“Could you maybe make me a dress Sansa?” Arya determinedly did not look her sister in the eye as she spoke.

“Of course I can, but I thought you hated wearing dresses?” Sansa looked very confused by her request.

“I don’t hate wearing them, just hated that I always got in trouble for getting them dirty when the boys never got in trouble for getting their clothes dirty.”

Arya had noticed quite early that she got in trouble for her skirts getting dirty, but if she stole Bran’s clothes, she never got in trouble for dirtying them, just stealing them.

“Well then, I can make you two if you’d like. One for special occasions and one that it doesn’t matter if it gets dirty. Does that sound good?”

That, that was more than she had hoped for. She had half expected Sansa to just laugh at her request.

“Do you want to help me design it, or would you prefer it to be a surprise?” Sansa asked, grabbing some paper from a pile to make notes.

“Could I help? I don’t want it to be girly and frilly.”

Sansa laughed, but it was a kind laugh.

“I wouldn’t dream of making any dress of yours frilly.”

Arya joined in with the laugh, but then another thought struck her, one that stopped her laugh dead.

“I won’t be laughed at, will I? for wanting to fight and wearing a dress?” She was ashamed of how small her voice was, but if she couldn’t be vulnerable in front of her sister then who could she be vulnerable in front of?

A gentle expression crossed Sansa’s face and she rounded the desk to take Arya’s hands in her own.

“No one will ever laugh at you for that. No one laughs at Tyene or her sisters when they wear dresses.”

“But they’re pretty.”

“Arya,” Sansa hands moved so they cupped her cheeks and forced her to look directly into her eyes, “You are beautiful.”

She must have seen the doubt in Arya’s eyes, because she changed tactics.

“Everyone always says you look like Aunt Lyanna, right?” She waited for Arya to nod before continuing, “Aunt Lyanna was so beautiful that a prince kidnaped her and forced the realm into civil war. If she was beautiful, and you look like her, then you must also be beautiful.”

Arya had never thought about it like that. She had grown up knowing that Sansa was the beautiful one, with her delicate features and bright hair, and she was almost the opposite of that. It had always made sense in her head that she wasn’t beautiful because she didn’t look like Sansa.

She nodded cautiously, she could not refute Sansa’s words.

Sansa looked long and hard into Arya’s eyes, as though checking whether her qwords had sunk in. She then gained a conspiratorial look, the sort she used to get before convincing Robb to do something embarrassing, “I asked the kitchens to make apple cakes today, as a bribe to get Rickon in the bath. Do you want to help me trick him into the hot springs?”

That sounded like so much fun, the look of betrayal on Rickon’s face when he realised he’d been tricked into bathing would be priceless, and she had always enjoyed swimming in the springs with her siblings. Some of her best memories of growing up had been playing in the warm waters with the others.

“That sounds like fun, what do you want me to do?” Arya asked eagerly.

“Can you take the soap and oils down early? I don’t want Rickon to see them in our hands before we have him in the water else he might try and run away. And maybe see if you can find the swimming chemises? I was going to take some time before dinner to gather all of those thigs, but it would be a great help if you could.”

Arya stood and agreed, it would be nice to feel helpful. She was at the door when Sansa called out to her once again.

“And tell Jon he’s joining us in the springs. He’s been planning a spar against Uncle Brynden if you want some entertainment.”

True to Sansa’s words, Jon was in the training yards, squaring off against their uncle. A small crowd had gathered to watch, eager to see the legendary Blackfish square off against the man who had captured Roose Bolton.

Arya had to admit that Jon gave as good as he got, his youth and energy to his advantage, but his lack of experience to his disadvantage. For the first few minutes they seemed fairly evenly matched, blow for blow meeting one another, their swords clanging with the force behind them.

Soon enough though, Jon made a mistake borne of youth and inexperience, he missed a feint and took a glancing blow with the flat of the blade to his ribs. Arya winced as she saw it, it didn’t look bad enough to break anything but he would likely have a nasty bruise there come morning.

Jon grunted with the pain but kept his sword up and circled around so he was out of reach of Brynden’s blade. He lunged forwards, but it was obvious the hit had winded him, as he was slower than he had been previously.

Arya guiltily thought it might have been exacerbated by the kick she had accidentally hit him with that morning when she was trying to clamber over her siblings to get out of the bed.

He made his second mistake quickly, and after that it was over in a few blows. Jon stood from where he had been knocked over, almost fully covered in mud, and Arya thought it was a good thing Sansa had planned for the Hot Springs that evening.

“You did good lad,” She could hear Brynden say as she approached, “Just try to be less rash. Use your head as well as your sword and you’ll be beating your opponent more often than not.”

Jon grinned while rubbing his side, and Arya took that moment to interject.

“That was fun to watch.” She teased, “And it’s a good thing Sansa told me to come find you. She wants to trick Rickon into bathing tonight, his stink is messing with her delicate sensibilities. She said you have to join us.”

“Well if the queen commands it.” Jon gave her a gentle push, “Of course I’ll be there. It might take two of us to pin him down and one to wash him, especially if her gets all wet and slippery.”

Arya grinned at him and darted out the way, she didn’t trust him not to try and cover her in mud as well, and she liked this set of clothes. It was one of the tunics Sansa had made her, one of the ones that had been made from Robb’s old things.

“Well that’s good because you stink as well.” She said, sniffing delicately at the air, “Yu smell so bad you can nearly see it in the air.”

She darted back once more as he lunged for her, and started to laugh as he slipped and fell back down into the mud.

“See you later Jon!” She laughed happily as she danced into the safety of the keep, leaving him sprawled in the mud of the courtyard, cursing at her.

* * *

Somehow they had managed to get Rickon down to the Hot Springs beneath the castle without him suspecting a thing. Somehow they had managed to convince him to undress and get in the water without creating a fuss.

He was quite happy splashing around in the hot water and didn’t even notice Sansa grabbing the soap Arya had hidden down there before.

He didn’t even notice that he was the only one to not be wearing a swimming tunic, he was so intent on seeing if he could splash hard enough to get the ceiling wet.

The curse he let out though when Jon grabbed him and Sansa approached with the bar of soap and the rag, that was a memory that Arya would savour for a long time.

He wriggled and writhed and for a moment more resembled an eel than a wolf but Jon held him firm and Arya ducked so she could grab one of his arms as well. Sansa soaped up the rag and started to scrub at the mud caked on Rickon’s cheeks, moving with his squirming so that she could get all of it off.

Arya felt suddenly sorry for her mother, how often had she had to do the same thing to them all at some point or another? How had she managed to stay so infinitely patient with them all?

She took the rag Sansa had passed her and started trying to get the mud- and was that custard?- stuck to Rickon’s skin off.

Rickon bore it stoically for the most part, only squirming and whining when they had to scrub particularly hard.

Or at least, until they tried to wash the tangled mass of curls upon his head, curls so full of mud and grime you could barely tell they were supposed to be red.

Jon must have loosened his grip slightly because he wrenched free and dove under the water to swim to the opposite side of the pool, away from them all.

Rickon fixed them all with such a glare that Arya couldn’t contain her laughter, she laughed and laughed and laughed, so hard that she fell over in the water and ended up dunking herself by accident.

It was Rickon’s turn to laugh at her then and he did so, hard and long enough that he didn’t notice Jon sneaking behind him until he was thrown over their brother’s shoulder and carried back to Sansa and the soap.

He was left to submit to the terrible ordeal of having his hair washed, although from what Arya could see, Sansa was far gentler than mother had ever been.

Soon enough Rickon was released from the torment, smelling far sweeter than he had before and Sansa turned her gaze on Arya and Jon.

“Are you going to wash your hair yourselves or will I need to treat you like Rickon?”

Arya and Jon both gulped and reached meekly for the soap, sometimes her sister was scarily like their mother.


	6. Sansa

Wintertown’s rebuilding was going surprisingly quickly, the idle soldiers had been put to work to build housing and walls and the town was taking shape.

It was not the town she remembered from her youth, although those who had remembered its layout had all worked together to try and make it as near as possible. Some streets were in the wrong places, a baker where there should have been a tannery, and the people were all different. But it was still Wintertown.

Still a place where the smallfolk could come and live in the shelter of the castle when Winter was near or war was threatened.

Sansa made a point to survey the works every couple of days, to deliver gifts of supplies to workers and smallfolk, to try and win their love.

She had seen first hand what happened if the smallfolk were ignored and left to starve while the nobles ate, had been caught up in the riots at Kings Landing and only been saved because the Hound had disobeyed his king. She had vowed then and there that she would not give her people any reason to riot, would make them view her with love instead of fear or hatred, for that was the path to true loyalty.

And so far it seemed to be working.

She was often met upon her walks by smiles, posies of flowers and pretty stones were pressed into her hands by children. Her brothers and sister reported the same treatment when they ventured out, Rickon did not struggle for playmates, and neither did Arya when she felt like acting her true age.

The North had always loved the Starks, that was never in question, but Sansa could not recall ever seeing such devotion on the faces of the smallfolk before.

She had started up her father’s tradition once more, inviting a different family each week to join them for a meal in Winterfell. It allowed her to gauge the problems of those in Wintertown, and allowed each family to feel like they had gained individual attention from their queen.

Families had flocked to the town as soon as it had begun rebuilding, and Sansa had sent out word that all were welcome. Those who were only travelling for Winter merely had to provide evidence of owning a holding of their own, or of a trade they practiced to be given a house to use for the duration of the winter. Those who could do neither were housed in communal buildings and offered positions as labourers.

Sansa knew from records that had survived in what had been her father’s office, that when the first heavy snows of winter began, farmers would drive their animals into Wintertown and take up residence in the two-sided buildings built specially.

In the south these things would be unheard of, but in the North during winter you had to stick together or you would not survive.

And this winter coming had been predicted to be the longest one yet.

* * *

Sansa picked up the note from Bran again, she had hardly believed it when she received it, a note carried by a robin was something she had never heard of happening before. And yet it had, and it was obviously Bran’s scrawl, messy and impatient as always.

His words though, they were as unbelievable as the robin. An army of the dead amassing beyond the wall, it was something out of Old Nan’s stories. But that was the reason the Free Folk had crossed the Wall, the army of the dead and the Others.

She had trusted Jon’s word, even when she did not quite believe it, trusted him enough to allow the settlement of her lands.

There had been no news from the Nights Watch since they retook Winterfell, and she’d been planning on asking the escort she was sending with the prisoners sentenced to the Watch to report back to her.

Maybe she could send someone to specifically find out what exactly was going on at the Watch. Someone she particularly trusted.

She’d send her uncle perhaps, and Jon. Jon knew the people of the Watch, would be able to smooth their presence there, while Brynden would be honest about the current strength of the Watch, of the Wall’s defensive capabilities, without the romanticism of a North man.

Sansa rested her head in her hands, she didn’t want to send her family away, even as close as the Wall was, if she thought she could get away with it she would keep them all locked up in Winterfell safe from harm.

Of course, that was a foolish wish, even if it was one no one could fault her for.

Sansa herself would need to travel soon as well, would need to travel to the Riverlands and Vale to allow the people to see their queen and to solve any problems that might require her attention. She wanted to check on her uncle Edmure as well, check how he was dealing with the aftermath of his captivity and the desolation of his lands.

The Riverlands has suffered the most in the war, had been the site of the most battles, and they would need the most help rebuilding.

Yet places in the North still needed rebuilding as well, places the Ironborn had destroyed, places the Boltons had left desolate.

A knock on the door to her study dragged her out of spiralling thoughts of just how she was going to be able to fund repairs of that magnitude. Wintertown’s rebuilding cost little, the supplies from the Wolfswood and the fund that had been set aside by every Stark Lord during the summer for the rebuild having been taken out from the Iron Bank with minimal problems.

Her uncle entered when she called out for him to do so, a pensive look on his face.

“What are you planning on doing with Greyjoy?”

Sansa had been expecting that question sooner or later, she needed some reason for keeping him alive other than pity, else the lords would never accept it.

“With Balon Greyjoy dead a Kingsmoot will have occurred on the Iron Islands, if it gets out that Theon is still alive and did not attend then it will make the Kingsmoot invalid. We can use this, if we send a message to Theon’s sister, Asha or Yara or whatever her name is, then we might be able to manipulate the proceedings so that someone willing to make a deal with us is put in charge.”

Sansa watched the byplay of emotions on her uncle’s face, she hoped that he agreed with her plan. It did make sense though, the North might not be vulnerable to attacks from the Lannisters in the way that The Riverlands was, but it was open to attacks from the Ironborn.

“That could work, you would have to put her on the throne though, from what I remember of the rebellion, each of Balon Greyjoy’s brothers is nuttier than the previous.” Brynden finally said, his words said carefully as though he was still thinking.

He pulled out the chair in front of Sansa’s desk and sat down.

“I know it’s a risk, but if we can form a truce with the Iron Islands then we only need to worry about the Lannisters, and we hold the Kingslayer so Tywin is unlikely to do anything too stupid while his last son’s neck is on the line. It’ll mean we can focus on the army Bran says is coming from Beyond-the-Wall, because we can’t fight a war on three fronts.” Sansa knew her tone had turned a little shrill and panicked by the end, but she hoped her uncle had not noticed.

“Sansa,” Brynden reached out and gentle took her hand, “When was the last time you took a proper break? Not when did you last wander around Wintertown to take a look at the building works, not when did you last do something that could also be counted as parenting you siblings, but a proper break?”

Sansa wracked her brain, trying to work out the last time she had done something that had no duty attached.

She couldn’t remember.

“I’ll stay here and answer some of these missives, you go do something you find fun. Play with your siblings or the wolves, go sit and sew and gossip with your ladies. Just do something that means you don’t need to worry about ruling three kingdoms for a couple of hours. I promise your kingdom will not fall apart if you take a break.”

“But what about the arrangements for tomorrow? They still need to be finalised.”

Brynden squeezed her hand, “And I will sort them out. You need a break before tomorrow, sweetling, else the funerals will hit you all the harder. Go do something fun, I’m telling you as both your uncle and your Hand.”

Sansa did not know why she was fighting taking a break, her head had already begun to ache and she desperately wanted to just be three-and-ten for a couple of hours, without the expectations of being queen on top of her.

“Alright,” She stood reluctantly, “But if something comes up that requires my attention come and get me immediately. I won’t have anyone suffering because you are loath to interrupt my sewing.”

“I promise, now shoo. Begone!”

He wafted his hands at her as she left the room, in much the way they did at the direwolves when they wanted to shoo them out of a room.

Sansa found herself giggling at the gesture, and trying to decide what to do with her sudden bout of free time.

* * *

Sansa had chosen quickly what she wished to do for a few hours, had retreated to her solar with a platter of lemon cakes, and sent for her ladies to join her in stitching and gossiping.

Her current project was the embroidering of Arya’s name-day dress, delicately stitching it with winter roses, running wolves, and thin swords. It was slow going, each stitch had to be perfect and even, and every so often she stitched beads on as well.

Her ladies had joined her quickly, their own sewing baskets in their hands, all except Tyene who had brought a small harp with her.

They each settled into the soft chairs dotted around the room and continued their own projects, each on as varied in style as the lady making it. Ellaria’s was full of bold colours, oranges and reds and pinks, forming exotic flowers; Leonette’s was the greens and golds of spring, twisting vines and oak leaves and roses; Alysane Mormont’s held no flowers, but rather a family of bears in a snow storm; Jeyne’s was in a style that Sansa was more familiar with from court, a Westerland’s style heavy in gold and embellishments but forming wolves and shells instead of lions.

Little Beth Cassel had joined them for the first time, still weak from her time as a prisoner of the Boltons, her fingers still shaking too badly for needlework and instead she knitted, unravelling parts of her work every so often when her fingers shook so much that she missed stitches.

It was a lovely feeling, to be surrounded by people with a love for the beautiful, by people who enjoyed stitching as she did and who weren’t malicious with their gossip.

They gently teased Ellaria for her infatuation with one of the spear wives, the sister in fact of Mance Rayder’s wife, and Ellaria flushed and giggled and turned it around on Alysane and her fling with Ser Daemon.

All through the gossip and the giggles, Tyene played her harp, playing sweet songs from places she had travelled to. Songs from Dorne and Highgarden, the Stormlands and Riverlands, songs from Bravvos and Lys. Songs from the North and ones she had been taught by Free folk.

All filled the air with a sweet sound, and every so often one of the group would break into song as they recognised a tune and became overwhelmed with the urge to sing.

A Northern jig filled the air suddenly, sounding slightly strange on a harp instead of a fiddle, but a jig nonetheless. Sansa noticed how Beth’s foot tapped slightly to the beat and a smile touched her face for the first time in a long while and so set her sewing to one side so she could pull her friend into a dance.

They spun and twirled and jumped to the music, the way they had been taught so many years ago, and Sansa laughed so hard her stomach hurt. She had all but forgotten how much fun it was to dance with a friend, how much more fun Northern dances were than the stately dances of the South.

It wasn’t long before Alysane joined in, her steps heavier but no less nimble, and she was able to pick Beth up for the twirls in a way that Sansa could not.

Sansa herself pulled a wistful looking Jeyne to her feet, and twirled her, taking the steps Robb had always used to do when they were learning with mother.

To her surprise Jeyne almost seemed to recognise the steps, was able to follow without too many missteps and when Sansa questioned her, Jeyne responded that Robb had once spun her around their rooms after they had both had a little too much to drink one evening.

When the music ended Tyene quickly started up another jig, and laughter filled the air as they continued to dance and dance until their sides hurt from laughter and their feet ached from jumping.

Sansa grinned and laughed and was so thankful her uncle made her take a break. She resolved to thank him at dinner, sure he would appreciate it.

* * *

The crypts were cool and dark and, despite the number of people there, quiet. The sculptors had finally finished their work, and now it was time to lay Robb and Father into their final resting places.

The craggonmen had produced Ned Stark’s bones, they had accepted them from the Lannister troops that had been escorting them to Winterfell on the orders of Tyrion Lannister.

Sansa herself had ensured Robb’s bones made it home, they had been wrapped in silk and placed in a chest after being recovered from the Twins. An honour guard had been arranged for their part of the procession back home.

The statues looked not dissimilar to the both of them, father’s solemn expression, and Robb’s curls had been captured well, but many things weren’t quite right. Robb’s eyes were too round, Father’s nose too straight.

To everyone who had not known them so well though, it was agreed that they were good likenesses, and Sansa supposed that that was what mattered, not that they were perfect, but rather that they existed.

The lords had gathered in the crypts, garbed in dour clothing to reflect the sombre nature of the event. Mance Rayder had been invited, as had Stannis Baratheon, although neither stood near the front for they had not known either well.

Rickon was perched on Brynden’s hip, it would be a hard man who would begrudge him that little comfort at the funerals of his father and eldest brother, would be someone much crueller than Sansa who would force him to act like a prince when he was mourning the loss of a parent.

Jon and Arya stood next to Brynden, in the space between the tombs that they had reserved for family, and Sansa did not need to look at them to know that Jon had an arm wrapped comfortingly around Arya.

She herself stood in front of them, facing the assembled lords and ladies and wishing that it wasn’t her duty to speak the words, to bid farewell to her family, wishing that Jon’s arm was wrapped comfortingly around her as well.

Jeyne was behind her as well, although Robb’s widow mostly kept to herself around the lords, although she generally did not join in when invited to accompany the rest of the family, it would have been an unspeakable cruelty to prevent her from joining the family to farewell hr husband.

“Your Graces, My Lords, My Ladies, my father and brother never followed the Seven, lucky for us I suppose as we do not need to stand vigil like they do in the South.” A slight laugh made its way around the room, just as she had planned with that comment, “Neither wold have wanted a great fuss to be made of them, just as they did not in life. My father used to joke that his funeral should be just as quiet and dull as he was in life, my mother would often respond saying that it would be a raucous occasion.”

Sansa paused and waited for the chuckles to die down once more, she then picked up the silk wrapped bones of her father and placed them gently into the stone sarcophagus.

“Lord Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, was many things. He was a fierce warrior, a skilled tactician, a good lord. He was a kind husband and a loving father. Of those things there were two which he prized above all else, he did his best to be a kind husband to a bride unused to the North and its way, he built a Sept in Winterfell so that his wife would feel welcome. He cared for all his children and did his best to treat them equally, never once did any of his children feel unloved by him, and he died protecting his children, died confessing to treason he did not commit when his daughters were threatened. Ned Stark would not wish to be remembered for any great deeds or titles, he would rather be remembered for creating and fostering a love so strong among his family that they would fight the world to return to each other, and that is how I shall remember him, even as I look up to him for guidance.”

Sansa spoke softly but surely, each word deliberate and planned with her siblings. Their father had never told them of his feats in battle, had instead always emphasised the bonds of family, they knew that was how he would want to be remembered and that was what they would fight for him to be remembered as.

“To Lord Eddard!” The Greatjon raised his sword in salute and the salute was repeated by all the Lords there, as was the Northern way.

Sansa nodded to Lord Reed and Greatjon Umber, who pushed the lid of the sarcophagus closed, concealing the bones from the torchlight.

Jon stepped forwards then, an iron sword in his hands, one that he placed upon the statue’s knees for the final part of the ritual.

“With iron your sprit is released from these halls, with a blade your memory shall guard the night to come, rest now, and be at peace for all winters to come.”

There was silence after those words, a peaceful quiet such as that found beneath the weirwood trees.

When Jon returned to his previous position Sansa gently placed Robb’s bones in his sarcophagus and then started to speak once more.

“King Robb Stark, King of the North, King of the Trident, King of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm, did something no Stark had done since Torrhen Stark knelt before Aegon Targaryen. Robb Stark wore the Crown of Winter; he made the Iron Throne so scared they had to resort to breaking Guest Right to kill him; he married for love; he never stopped fighting to bring his family back to him. Robb Stark had infinite patience for his siblings’ antics, he made sure that every single one of us knew just how much he loved us. He was taken from us far too soon, and not a day goes by that we do not miss him or look to him for guidance.”

Jon and Brynden shut the lid of Robb’s sarcophagus, there had been some discussion over who would have that honour, whereas they had just chosen father’s friends to close his, Robb’s had a little more political meaning. One person from each of the kingdoms Robb had ruled, a Stark and a Tully, a choice that could not offend anyone.

“The King in the North!” Lady Mormont started this salute, and the crypts echoed with a call they had not heard for nearly three hundred years.

Rickon and Arya both stepped forwards when the noise died down, a sword carefully held in Rickon’s arms, and the crown that Lady Stoneheart had given them held in Arya’s.

“No gold or jewels shall crown thee, for when winter comes and cold winds blow, bronze and iron shall defend thine kingdom. We, the lords of the North and the Trident, do proclaim thee, Robb of House Stark, King of the Trident and King of the North. A King of Winter we do proclaim thee, and a King thou shall be until the world stops turning and the stars stop shining.” Arya said, reaching up to put the crown upon the statue’s head.

A shiver ran down Sansa’s spine at those words, at the age and ceremony in them that she had not quite appreciated at her own coronation, the weight of them was something else, a weight far greater than the words spoken at the coronation of kings of the Iron Throne, a weight stepped in history and the memory of winters long gone.

Rickon placed the sword in the statue’s hands and repeated the words Jon had said earlier, his face screwed up in intense concentration. He had practiced those words for a week, repeating them over and over so that he would not get them wrong. And he didn’t, he said every word perfectly and the pride Sansa felt was reflected on Jon, Arya and Brynden’s faces.

The reverent quiet filled the crypts once more, a heady sort of quiet. And for the briefest of moments, Sansa felt her father and brother’s presence, as though they were stood there beside her.


	7. Arya

It had been easier than expected to convince everyone to let her go for a hunt, it probably helped that they were expecting those of the lords who had not answered Sansa’s call and her sister likely waned her out from underfoot for the preparations.

It might also have had something to do with the fact that all of Arya’s siblings knew exactly how irritating she could be when she had her mind set on something, and just did not want to deal with that.

Arya was very proud of how annoying she could be, it was a skill she had finely honed over the years.

There was also the very slight possibility that it might have been because she had threatened the Red Priestess when she had run into her in the courtyards. She had managed to avoid the witch up until that point, but when she saw her there, and Gendry flinching away from her, Arya had snapped. It had only been Ser Davos talking her down that had caused her to relent from her attempt to get revenge of Gendry’s behalf.

So she had taken supplies enough for a few days, Gendry and Nymeria and was attempting to track a bear that some of the Free Folk had mentioned seeing in the Wolfswood.

Arya had decided that if she was going to collect a fur to court her betrothed with, it was going to be a proper fur that showed off her skills, rather than a deerskin. Of course, she was cheating a little by having Nymeria helping her, but she was only ten and she was pretty sure her brother would kill her if she even thought about trying to take on a bear by herself.

It was pleasant to be out of the castle, to joke with Gendry like she had on the better days they had spent trekking through the Riverlands. She had refused to call Gendry anything but ‘blacksmith’ until he called her by her name instead of ‘milady’.

He had cracked quite quickly.

The first day they had found nothing but rabbits and deer tracks, they had eaten well that night, fresh rabbit cooked over a fire, but it hadn’t helped with Arya’s disappointment over not finding any sign of a bear.

The second day they were far more lucky, the dawn had barely broken when Nymeria rushed off, following a scent she had caught, they rushed after her on horseback, struggling at points to keep up with her.

There was a sudden flurry of movement and a loud roar and for a moment Arya regretted her choice of quarry, the bear loomed ahead of them, its claws extended and its teeth showing.

It had raised one great paw to swipe at Gendry when Nymeria appeared from the undergrowth, and leapt at the bear, her jaws clamping around its neck.

For the first time Arya could truly appreciate just how big her wolf had grown; there was very little difference in size between Nymeria and the bear. But Nymeria was faster, her claws and teeth sharper.

It was very little fight at all in the end, the bear fell to the ground with a final snarl and Nymeria stood over it, panting heavily, her hot breath forming clouds in the air.

Arya found herself slightly disappointed, whilst bringing Nymeria had been to help with bringing down the bear; she had hoped she would at least manage to get a shot in herself.

She dismounted, shaking her head in disappointment, and gestured to Gendry to give her a hand.

The bear carcass needed to be field butchered before they could go anywhere, and it would go far faster with two.

* * *

Arya struggled to keep her horse from bolting as a crash echoed from the undergrowth and a girl dashed in front of them. Her dress and cloak were ripped and unsuitably light for the snows that had fallen that week, yet upon a second look they were obviously finely made and of a good quality fabric.

The girl looked up at her with frightened eyes and something about her seemed very familiar. She dropped to her knees before them, although Arya was unsure whether it was she who was recognised or the Stark Direwolf on her breast.

“My lady,” The girl would not meet Arya’s eyes no matter how much she tried to catch them, “I ask for sanctuary within Winterfell. I ask for sanctuary from the Queen as I fear I am in danger.”

Her voice was so soft and nearly broken that Arya couldn’t help but dismount her horse so that she was no longer towering over her.

“Tell me, what is your name and why do you seek sanctuary from my sister.”

The girl glanced up, “I’m Alys Karstark, my Lady, heir to the Karhold. I seek sanctuary to escape from my uncles who wish to take my claim for their own.”

Well that did explain why the girl seemed so familiar, Arya had seen her before at summer feasts and the like, although never spoken to her.

“I will take you to Winterfell, Lady Karstark, although I have no power to offer you sanctuary until my sister has heard your tale.” Arya spoke, trying to channel Sansa and mother in her tone.

Lady Karstark looked like she would weep, an event Arya very much did not want to happen, and a glance at Gendry said he did not either.

“If you would ride behind me the rest of the way, Lady Karstark, then we shall return far quicker.” Arya quickly offered.

She mounted her horse once more and waited for Lady Karstark to mount behind her, Gendry’s horse was carrying the butchered bear corpse and it would be unfair to burden it further, so Arya put her distaste for riding with another to one side.

“Thank you, my lady.” Lady Karstark said softly.

Arya had to hold back a snort of laughter, Lady Karstark would not be thanking her if her story failed to satisfy Sansa. Especially since Sansa was still angry that the Karstarks had not answered her call.

* * *

Arya was proud of the flurry of movement her arrival caused; it was rather satisfying to have a number of people running around because of her actions. Not that she would ever voice such a thing, that would gain her a lecture from Jon, Sansa and Brynden.

She was surprised though, that her arrival did not cause her siblings to come and greet her. They had made a point of one of them always greeting anyone returning from a trip out of Winterfell, even if it was just to Wintertown. It was reassuring, a way to remind them that they were home again, that they had their family around them once more.

“Princess Arya!” A man with the Tully trout upon his coat rushed up to where Arya was dismounting her horse. “Queen Sansa is in court at the moment, she said you were to join should you manage to return in time.”

Arya nodded at him, if Sansa was in court then it likely meant that the lords who had not answered Sansa’s call had arrived, except Lady Karstark of course.

The lady herself was swaying slightly behind Arya, her weariness obvious on her features. Arya was tempted to let her rest and allow her to speak to Sansa in private, but it would be better for such an event to occur in front of witnesses, and what better time than just after the trial of the other lords who had supported the Boltons?

A small part of her, a part that sounded a little like her mother, said that it would probably help Lady Karstark’s case anyway, if she looked exhausted and pitiful. That Sansa was more likely to be kind to her if she looked like her need for help was genuine.

Arya left Gendry and the stable hands to deal with the horses, she merely gave instructions for the bear pelt to be stored safely until she had use for it, and led the lady to the Great Hall.

She did not open the doors all the way, she knew there was no need as she slipped in, for Sansa and Jon spotted her almost immediately. Jon smiled at her, but Sansa didn’t, Arya had noticed she didn’t often smile when the crown was on her head.

Arya wove through the lords, trusting Lady Karstark to remain close by, until she was stood to one side, near to the other lords who had business with Sansa.

The soft mutterings and conversations of the hall stopped when the doors opened fully and two figures were ushered to the space before Sansa and the High table.

“Lady Dustin, Lord Ryswell, you stand here today accused of failing to honour the call of your liege lords and supporting traitors to the Crown of the North. What do you have to say in your defence?”

Arya would always be shocked at how much like their father Sansa sounded, when she was passing judgement or presiding over court, very little could Arya recognise of her romantic, soft sister, it was as if the crown on her brow transformed her sister into a different person, a slightly scary person.

“Your Grace,” Lord Ryswell dropped to his knees before Sansa, “I have no defence for myself or my House, save that we could not bring ourselves to fight against my good-son. We could not, in good faith, raise arms against the husband of my daughter.”

Arya searched his face, and that of his daughter Lady Dustin, there did not seem to be any untruth in his features. He had perhaps gone for the only defence that Sansa would have accepted, any other and she likely would have stripped his lands and titles before he could finish speaking.

She still wasn’t sure that Sansa would not do something of the like, not if she wanted to make an example of them as her lords had likely advised her to.

“Do you agree with the words of Lord Ryswell, Lady Dustin? Were you unwilling to raise arms against your late sister’s husband?”

Lady Dustin sunk to her knees as she agreed with Sansa’s words, from her face it seemed she understood the danger she was in.

Silence filled the hall, the disgraced lord and lady remaining on their knees on the stone floor before Sansa.

Finally, when the lords had begun to shift, and fear had begun to touch upon the disgraced noble’s faces, Sansa spoke.

“While your motivations and reasonings are understandable, I cannot let a failure to respond to your liege, the support you offered to traitors, to go unpunished.” Sansa’s voice was as clear and cold as ice, “Therefore, my lords, I deem it appropriate to order that a portion of your funds will go towards the building and running of a home for the orphans of the families destroyed by the betrayal of the Boltons.”

It was less harsh of a punishment than others would have given, from what Arya had heard it was far more merciful than what Robb would have done, likely more merciful than what their father would have done. It was very Sansa, very much the sort of thing that showed that even beneath the crown her sister was still kind hearted.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Lord Ryswell bit out, “You are as merciful as they say.”

Lady Dustin did nothing, merely kept her eyes down and away from Sansa.

Arya ran a critical eye over them both, if either of them were unsatisfied by the decision Sansa had come to then they could be a danger, and Arya would not allow a danger to her family to go unnoticed again. Would not allow traitors to sprout under her family’s noses.

They backed out of the floor space, to join the throng of lords and ladies that formed Sansa’s court. A few dirty looks were shot their way, the Umbers in particular seemed to have taken umbrage with their easy acceptance. Arya wasn’t worried though, she knew that the Northern Houses in general were far too loyal to the Starks to cause any trouble for Sansa.

“Is there any other business to be presented before the court?” Uncle Brynden called out from Sansa’s side, his eyes briefly meeting Arya’s to indicate she should introduce her guest.

She did not need to push her way to the front, the lords moved out of the way for her, most out of respect but some because they knew just how pointy her elbows were from experience.

“Your Grace,” Arya called out as she strode confidently to the centre of the room. “I have some business to present, my guest here has a request to make of you.”

She had chosen her words carefully, while she had not formally offered Lady Karstark Guest Right, calling her a guest should protect her to some extent.

“Queen Sansa.” Lady Karstark sunk into a deep curtsey. “I ask for sanctuary here in Winterfell, and your aid in reclaiming my home.”

Arya watched as Sansa raised a single eyebrow, a move copied almost directly from their father. “Why should I aid you, Lady Karstark, when you did not aid me?”

Lady Karstark fell to her knees, “Because, Your Grace, I wished to come and help you, I had almost gathered my forces when my uncle bade them stand down. He and my cousin locked me in my chambers and panned to marry me to secure my home. I only escaped with the help of my maid.”

Arya could see Sansa’s features soften at the tale, it likely hit quite close to home to her sister.

“Lady Karstark, I would bid you tell me more details of this at a later date. For now, be welcome within my halls, and rest from your journey.”

She hadn’t expected Sansa to say anything else really, and so Arya moved to gently lead Lady Karstark out of the hall, Sansa’s voice echoing after her as she addressed the next issue brought before her.

Showing a guest to a room was servant’s work, but Arya found she did not mind, she hoped to get to know Alys Karstark better at some point. One more ally could never hurt after all.

* * *

“Why are some people just so boring?” A small girl with dark hair flopped down next to Arya, “I swear all they seem to talk about is boring things like sewing and knitting and romance.”

“While I agree that romance is boring, the other two are rather important.” Arya answered cautiously, unsure who the girl was.

“Just because they’re important, doesn’t mean they’re not boring.” The girl flapped her hand dismissively and leaned forwards to stare directly into Arya’s eyes. “Anyway, is it true you took down a bear all by yourself?”

Arya was slightly taken back by the intensity in the girl’s eyes, it wasn’t the same intensity she saw in the eyes of the Red Priestess but rather the same sort she had seen reflected in her own eyes when she looked in the mirror.

“Well, my wolf did.” Arya answered honestly, she was surprised to see that her answer did nothing to quiet the fervour in the girl’s eyes.

“I’m Lyanna Mormont. My mother says it will do me good to meet new people.”

“Arya Stark. Is it true that everyone on Bear Island learns to fight?”

Lyanna shook her head, “Not everyone. Babies can’t, and some people don’t want to know more than the basics. Is it true that you’re a squire?”

Arya nodded and grinned proudly, “Yes, I’m the squire to Lady Brienne of Tarth. Although often the Kingslayer has a hand in teaching me.”

Lyanna’s eyes lit up with a new emotion, “Do you think they would give me lessons?”

Arya shrugged, “I don’t see why not. Just a warning though, if you are trying to get away from romance, they maybe aren’t your best option. Lannister is obsessed with Brienne, like a love sick puppy, and she’d just as bad. Neither of them have realised it though, its maddening.”

Lyanna leaned back with a groan. “Ugh, that’s just gross. I still want to learn from them though, they used to say Jaime Lannister was the best swordsman in Westeros!”

There was a lull in the conversation and they sat there quite happily.

Arya realised with a slight lurch that she might have just made a friend, her first highborn female friend at that. She stood and dusted off her tunics before holding a hand out to Lyanna.

“Let’s go find the wolves, I have the urge to cover my brother with mud and Rickon is normally running around with them.”

Lyanna took her hand and used it to pull herself up.

“That sounds fun, I’ve always wondered what it was like to have a younger sibling to torment.”


	8. Jon

Jon pushed open the door with a loud bang, he ignored the reproachful look Ghost sent his way at the noise, it was a necessary part of his plan.

“Theon!” He called out, as he strode into the room.

Every movement was designed to make as much noise as possible; this had twofold reasoning, the loud noise would enable Theon to know where he was and would hopefully prevent his startling, and it had been a tradition for them at one point growing up to make as much noise as possible, to be as arsehole like as possible when interacting, meaning it might help spark some of the old Theon.

He was pleased to see that for once Theon was not sitting on the floor, but instead was cured up in a chair by the fire. he raised his head to look a Jon with and emotion Jon could not name, a look that was a far cry from the arrogant sneers that used to be aimed his way.

“Theon! There you are. Put your cloak and boots on, we’re going for a walk.” Jon tried to channel some of Robb’s effortless commanding tone, the one that used to get them in all kinds of trouble, “You have been stuck in this room far too long, you must be getting bored by now.”

He noticed absently that Grey-Wind was also curled up by the fire, his large furry body pressed against Theon’s legs. When Jon released a sharp whistle the wolf lumbered to his feet and started to nudge at Theon until he started to move.

Jon waited patiently for Theon to gather his cloak and pull his boots over his mutilated feet. He made a mental note of how Theon winced as he stood and determined that he would have the Maester come and have another look at them, to see if anything more could be done other than the Milk of the Poppy he knew Theon was reluctant to drink.

Eventually they left the room, Theon leaned heavily on Grey-Wind as they walked down the corridor, and winced with each step. It was a sad sight to say the least, Jon could easily recall the way Theon had used to stride down the corridors and now he could move no faster than a pained shuffle.

He led Theon out of the castle in to the cold, clear air of the morning. It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in sight and the courtyard was just as empty as Jon thought it would be.

A number of the lords had left Winterfell, to return to their homes to fortify them for Winter, to ensure the last harvest was being collected and to ensure order in their lands. They were ready to be called up again, should Sansa need them, but for now everyone was tired of warfare. Of those lords who remained, a large group had left on a hunt, both for a change of scenery and to bring back meat for the kitchens and to be dried.

It was the reason he had chosen this time to bring Theon outside, the fewer eyes on him the more relaxed Jon knew he would be.

He led him over to the training area, to the archery butts where they had used to spend so much time. With Robb, with Bran, even with Arya when she could sneak away from Lady Catelyn.

Jon was pleased to see that the bows he had asked for were laid out on a bench, as were a set of gloves he had traded for from a man of the Free Folk. It was not uncommon for members of the Free Folk to lose fingers to frostbite in the deepest pars of winter and they had long come up with ways to adjust the bow so it worked for them.

He snatched up the glove and held it out to Theon expectantly.

Theon eyed him with confusion but put the glove on over his mutilated hand, his eyes widened in surprise as he realised there were no fingers in the places he had none.

Jon grinned and quickly strung the two bows. He left one on the bench, ready for Theon to use.

“I asked around, and while you may no longer be able to hold a bow in the conventional way, there are variations that would work for you.”

Theon’s face was full of disbelief as he looked at Jon and the bow in his hands.

“Now, watch carefully, and then you’re going to try this yourself.” Jon continued to channel Robb as much as he could, it was far more likely that Theon would listen to him if he did.

He demonstrated the stance and hold that the Free Folk had taught him, he explained as he did so and held each movement long enough that Theon might get a proper look.

When he felt that the demonstration had gone on long enough he put his bow down and handed Theon a familiar bow he had found in the back of the armoury. Jon pretended not to see the glint of tears in Theon’s eyes as he held his own bow in his hands once more, it was likely Theon had thought it lost or that he would never again be able to use it, and Jon could hardly imagine how he would react had it been him losing an activity he held so dear and then regaining it.

“Show me the grip then.” Jon ordered, moving close so he could correct the placement of Theon’s fingers and the way he held the bow.

Theon’s fingers shook as he held the bow, but his placement was good, and his arms were steady as he raised it as though to fire.

Jon had him draw the string back a few times, to test his grip on it and check that his arms could hold steady enough that he would not be a danger to bystanders.

He could see the way that Theon was trembling, but thought nothing of it as he moved to gather some arrows. Theon was often trembling these days, an effect of the trauma he had been put through, and a result of recovering from starvation, all Jon thought was that they would need to bring an extra cloak the next time, to help Theon with the cold.

It wasn’t until an arrow was nocked that Jon realised quite how bad Theon’s shaking had become. He was shaking bad enough that the sound of the arrow hitting against the wood of the bow was clearly audible.

“Are you alright Theon?” Jon asked, placing a hand gently on Theon’s upper arm.

Theon flinched with his whole body and dropped the bow to the ground, he followed after it quickly, until he was crouched in the cold mud, with his hands wrapped around his head as if to ward off a blow.

“Not my name… Not my name…” Theon muttered, rocking back and forth slightly, “Master wont like it. Reek… reek… rhymes with weak and meek and freak…”

Jon crouched next to him and tried to coax him up from the mud. He didn’t want to have to pick Theon up again, there was the chance they would run into other people on the walk back, and it would be even more humiliation for Theon to be caught curled up in his arms.

“Do you think you might be able to stand up? I promise you, your master isn’t here.” Jon placed a gentle hand on Theon’s back, “Can you stand for me maybe?”

Theon rose to his feet and swayed in place unsteadily, he looked like he was going to fall into the mud once more so Jon wrapped and arm around him to keep him upright.

“Thank you, milord.” Theon muttered, and those words, more than anything, told Jon just how broken Theon still was.

“Fucks sake Theon,” Jon said fondly, even as he continued to half drag him inside the castle, “Never once in your life have you called me a lord. Don’t fucking start now.”

He saw a brief flash of amusement cross Theon’s face and inwardly cheered, seeing how much Theon had suffered for his poor choices removed all the anger he had felt at his betrayal.

“Now, you have an important choice to make, Greyjoy.” He pretended not to feel the flinch and continued to keep his tone fond, “Do you want to eat dinner with us wearing those clothes, or would you prefer to change into something more suitable for dining with a queen?”

He waited patiently for Theon to respond, even as he kept steering him towards his chamber. He already knew which one Theon was likely to choose, but he gave him the option nonetheless, it had been recommended by the master, to give him more choices to get him used to making them again.

“I’d like to change. Sansa did always care for propriety.” Theon’s vice was so quiet that Jon had to strain to hear it.

“Aye, that she did. She’s less strict now. Her and Arya even bicker less than they used to, its quite strange indeed.”

Jon comforted himself with the slight upward tilt of Theon’s mouth, it was a far cry from the near constant smirk but it was an improvement. A small improvement, but an improvement regardless.

* * *

The Free Folk who had chosen to move south to Wintertown had all largely congregated in one area, it was mostly families with small children who had made the move and the children ran wild through the streets, laughing and playing quite happily.

On occasion Jon would bring Rickon with him, it did his brother good to escape from the castle and the bowing, to allow him to interact with children who viewed him no differently for his title.

He did not have Rickon with him on this day however, he had a different reason for visiting the town, a more pleasant one than checking on the settlement or building works going on.

The house he was aiming for was made of the same dark stone and wood as the rest, the main thing that differentiated it from the rest was the curtains made from the remnants of a black cloak and pink banners, the crosses from the banners forming a rather artful pattern.

He was unsurprised when the door was flung open as he approached and two small children darted around his legs. He was sure that had Ghost accompanied him, instead of choosing to replace Grey-Wind by Sansa’s side, the children would have stopped and greeted him, as it was they just ran past, leaving the door open behind them.

Jon knocked on the open door and grinned at the swearing from within.

“If the girls have managed to destroy something again, take it to their mother. Karsi is the one dealing with them.” Tormund’s voice got louder as he approached the door.

Jon’s grin widened, “The girls giving you some trouble recently?”

Tormund’s scowl lightened, “When are they not, Pretty Crow? Anyway, what brings you out of yer castle? Are yer trying to escape some torment yer siblings have cooked up?”

Jon took the hand he was offered, “I came to see if you would like to visit a part of Winterfell you haven’t seen yet, it’s an area only really open to the Starks but I’m sure my siblings won’t care if I show you.”

He could see he had sparked Tormund’s curiosity. He knew that Tormund had been dragged around Winterfell by Arya and Rickon when they had first reclaimed the castle, that he had been shown a number of Arya’s favourite nooks and crannies while Jon had been involved with the meetings and discussions in the wake of the battle.

“You might want to bring a change of clothes with you, but you don’t need anything else.”

Tormund waggled his eyebrows at Jon, and Jon felt his face flush slightly at the insinuation. He let go of Tormund’s hand so that Tormund could collect his change of clothes.

“Do you need to let anyone know you’re going into Winterfell?” He asked as Tormund moved around the small house.

“No, Karsi is with her partner at the moment, and the girls were going to spend the night with their grandmother.”

Jon smiled at the relieved note to Tormund’s voice, it was likely that he was saving Tormund from an afternoon and evening of boredom.

Tormund returned to him with a bundle under one arm and his heavy coat on, everyone said it was likely to snow soon, judging by the dark clouds upon the horizon, and no one was taking any chances of being caught in it with inappropriate clothing.

He led Tormund to Winterfell and then through the castle and down stairs until they were at the same level as the crypts, deep in the bowels of the castle. He ignored Tormund’s questioning look and instead pushed open the heavy door to reveal the baths.

The room was empty, as Jon knew it would be, he had mentioned to Sansa that he might bring Tormund here and she had promised to keep Arya and Rickon away, not that Rickon really needed much convincing to remain away from the baths. He had ended up making her promise not to attempt to do anything to the room, to make it more ‘romantic’ or any such thing as he knew she wished to.

Steam rose from the water in plumes, filling the air with warmth that went right down to the bone.

Jon was able to quickly slip into the water, he had known where they were going and so had dressed with that in mind, his loose tunic and breeches ideal for quick removal.

Tormund took far longer, taking the time to explore the crevasses of the room, and poking interestedly at the bottles and vials that Sansa liked to use. His clothes also took longer to remove, the layers of furs having a large number of ties and buttons that take time to undo.

He removed them relatively quickly though, although Jon was unsure whether the heat of the room or the promise of the hot water had a greater part in it.

Despite the damp heat of the room, Jon’s mouth went dry as he watched Tormund lower himself into the water. He knew that Tormund was muscular, knew that he concealed a lot beneath his furs, but Jon had never seen him without his furs before.

A spot of heat formed high on his cheeks, and he hoped that the steam of the room would conceal it slightly. Although judging by the amused glint in Tormund’s eyes, his hope was unfounded.

“Like what you see, pretty one?” Tormund purred as he swam over to Jon with broad strokes.

Jon sank slightly into the water and tried to ignore the way the water glinting off of Tormund’s muscles made his blood rush.

Gentle, callused hands trailed down Jon’s sides as Tormund pulled him closer, and Jon very suddenly felt overwhelmed.

“This was a good idea of yers, Pretty Crow, haven’t had some time to ourselves in a while.” Tormund said, moving his hands up and down Jon’s sides.

Jon relaxed under the touch, he started to lean into Tormund little by little, until he was nearly completely supported by his lover.

“I thought you’d like it down here, its always been one of my favourite places. One of the things I missed most when at the Wall was the heat of these baths.” Jon said, his eyes closed from contentment at the heat and being held.

When he shifted a bit in the water, he could suddenly feel just how much Tormund was enjoying the situation. Jon’s eyes flew open and he look directly into Tormund’s to see the lust and affection contained within them.

“What say you to enjoying this privacy?” Tormund all but hummed into Jon’s ear.

His hands moved further south, until they were no longer cradling Jon’s sides, but instead cupping his arse.

Jon’s whole body stiffened at the touch; his mind went to war with itself. He did not know if he felt ready to go beyond the touches they had previously exchanged, but at the same time he did not want to disappoint Tormund, did not want Tormund to leave him to find someone ready and willing to sleep with him.

“I… I…” Jon couldn’t find the words to articulate what he was feeling and instead looked at Tormund helplessly.

Tormund’s face instantly lost its humour and he looked at Jon with a solemn intensity.

“We don’t have to do anything yer not up for.” He said, his hand cradling Jon’s chin, “Its no fun if everyone isn’t having fun.”

That wasn’t something Jon had ever really heard before, he thought his father might have mentioned it once, but the rest of the men he had spent his time around had never spoken of such things.

Seven Hells, half the men at the Watch had been there because they found it more fun when their partner was unwilling.

“Do yer understand, pretty one? I will not touch you until you ask me to.” Tormund’s voice was the most serious Jon had ever heard it, and he couldn’t help but be thankful he had fallen for such a considerate man.

“I don’t think I want to do anything just yet.” He whispered, dropping his eyes so he was not looking into Tormund’s expressive blue ones.

“Then we won’t do anything Jon, we’ll just cuddle and kiss like we have been doing, and if you change yer mind at any time then we’ll try whatever you feel like.” The hand moved from his chin to gently caress his cheek and Jon leant into it with a slight sigh.

“Thank you.” Jon breathed, leaning into Tormund’s side.

A rough hand gently curled around his side and he savoured the skin contact as he curled up against Tormund properly.

They ended up exchanging lazy kisses until their fingers were all wrinkled from the water and as Jon left the baths he felt warmed through, both from the water and the love Tormund had shown him.


	9. Brynden

_‘Ser Brynden Tully, Hand of the Queen,_

_Uncle, I hope you and my nieces and nephews are well. We all celebrated upon hearing that Winterfell was back in Stark hands once more. _

_Shortly after this letter arrives the prisoners sentenced to the Wall should also arrive, as per the arrangements made at the Twins. _

_I would ask that you send more troops to hold the Riverlands, scouts have reported increased Lannister activity along our borders, and while most have been routed from within the Riverlands, there is still the potential for an ambush. _

_I should also like to take this opportunity to give you some good news, you are a great-uncle once again, my son was born a week past, healthy and happy. We have named him Robb. Please pass on the good news to his cousins. _

_Edmure Tully, Lord of Riverrun, Lord Paramount of the Trident.’_

Brynden read the relevant bits of the letter out before the council that had been called, he had shown it to his nieces and nephews beforehand and had pretended not to notice at the sniffles at their cousin’s name.

Those of the Riverlords who had travelled North with them stiffened at the news of the Lannisters moving towards their borders, their lands had only just begun to make any signs of recovery, the war starting up again would set them back even further and make it so that they were in danger of starvation when the Winter comes.

“There is further news, my lords, we received a missive from Storm’s End just this morning, and it contains a rather shocking development.” Sansa said, holing up a scroll before reading it out loud.

_“Queen Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, of the Trident, of the Vale,_

_Queen Sansa, I do write to you with the offer of an alliance that will be beneficial to the both of us. I am Aegon Targaryen, trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms, and I offer you the chance to pool our resources to destroy the usurpers who took your father from you and my mother from me. _

_I hold no dragons to force you to bend the knee as my ancestor did to yours, instead I offer an alliance from one monarch to another, although I do not lie when I say I hope you will realise that I am an apt ruler to bend the knee to. _

_I would ask that you send an emissary to Storm’s End where my armies currently reside, to discuss terms of an alliance. I promise that any emissary you send will be safe, no harm shall come to them, no matter the result of the negotiations._

_King Aegon VI Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.” _

“My lords, we must make a decision about what to do. We have enemies on all sides, do we make this alliance with the man claiming to be Aegon Targaryen?” Sansa’s voice was clear and she sounded so very much like Cat that Brynden had to remind himself where he was. “We also need to send someone to investigate the news from the Wall and to escort the latest batch of recruits for he Watch.”

A low muttering filled the air as the lords thought on Sansa’s words. No one could say she was incorrect; no one could say she wasn’t taking the threats seriously but the thought of working with a Targaryen made everyone wary.

The Targaryens had broken all oaths of fealty when Aerys Targaryen had burned Lord Rickard Stark alive, killed Brandon Stark, and had demanded that Lord Arryn break Guest Right by delivering his wards to Aerys to be killed. They had no legitimate claim to the throne any more, less of a claim than even the Lannisters held.

“Your Grace, you cannot be seriously considering working with a Targaryen.” Lord Bracken sneered, “The whole family was mad!”

There was something to be said about the man who would insult a member of Oberyn’s family like that, and Brynden was unsure whether it was bravery or foolhardiness.

“You watch what you say about my nephew, Bracken.” Oberyn hissed as he leant over the table with his dagger in hand, “The last of my dear sweet sister that remains will not be slandered by the likes of you.”

Brynden decided that he was going to go with foolhardy for Bracken, even as he moved so that he could stop Oberyn doing something that would force Sansa to act. He didn’t want his niece o be put in a position which might cause an incident with their alliance with Dorne, or threaten her sovereignty, all because of egos clashing.

“Oberyn, he’s not worth it.” He muttered into Oberyn’s ear, gripping tightly to his lover until he felt him sag.

“Lord Bracken, I would ask you to refrain from insulting those we have not yet met.” Sansa said sharply, “I can assure you that should Aegon Targaryen turn out to be as insane as his grandfather then we will not ally with him, but it would be foolish to turn down an alliance based upon a family name. especially with the news from Beyond-the-Wall.”

Lord Bracken looked away, shamefaced, and Brynden could feel the smugness emanating off of Oberyn.

“Your Grace, who were you thinking of sending?” Lady Alysane said, in place of her mother, “Both to the Wall and to any negotiations?”

Brynden took his chance to speak up, “It is rather more urgent that the situation at the Wall is evaluated, Aegon Targaryen can wait, he is no danger to us holed up at Storm’s End.”

He smiled slightly in acknowledgement of the grateful look Sansa sent his way, it was not uncommon that the lords would get in an argument that could last for a long while.

“My lords, there are two I would trust with this mission above all others,” Sansa said, and Brynden felt a sinking feeling that he knew who she was talking about, “I would ask my uncle and brother to travel to the Wall to investigate the truth of the reports we have had from there. My brother is already known to the Watch, to the Free Folk that reside there, and my uncle can carry the weight of my power to wield as he sees fit.”

“And what of the Riverlands? What of the Lannisters?” Lord Piper spoke up this time.

“As it stands, I have a request to make of you, Lord Piper.” Sansa said, sounding almost amused, “I would ask you and Lord Grafton to take your forces down to assist with the defence of the Riverlands from the Lannisters.”

This was a decision they had previously discussed, sending a portion of the Riverland forces and the Knights of the Vale to Riverrun would show that Sansa cared for those lands, that she wasn’t leaving the undefended, but also kept a large portion of the army in the North in case the Ironborn attacked once more or the threat Beyond-the-Wall was as imminent as Bran’s missive had made it sound.

“Queen Sansa, you can’t possibly be considering an alliance with the Targaryen. Would you so easily break your word, your oath of alliance to me?”

Brynden should have known they would be unable to get through one of these meetings with out Stannis Baratheon having his say, he was only invited out of courtesy and yet he insisted on giving his opinion on almost every matter.

“King Stannis,” For despite the man holding no lands or crown his niece was always very proper, “At no point have I said that we will be entering an alliance with the family which burned my grandfather alive in his own armour, that murdered my uncle while he watched his father die. At no point have I promised that we will support the son of the man who kidnapped my aunt and left her to die in the sands of his wife’s home, all the while leaving his wife and children to die in Kings Landing.”

Baratheon paled slightly at the ferocity in Sansa’s tone, she looked and sounded almost like she was embodying the wolf of her House, the wolf at her side.

“We will send emissaries to discuss terms with Aegon Targaryen, as I would suggest you did so yourself. We have no wish to fight yet another war, yet another enemy, not when the Great War might be upon us.” Sansa continued, her tone and countenance like steel.

“And how do I know you will not break your oath, will not claim the throne for the Targaryen when you gaze upon his no doubt pretty features?” Baratheon sneered.

The lords stiffened, and Sansa’s tone turned even frostier. Brynden was absurdly glad that Arya was not involved in this meeting, as undoubtedly she would have challenged Baratheon for her sister’s honour if she was. As it was, Jon sent a glare across the table that a weaker man would have cowered from and his hands caressed his sword hilt as though he wished to draw it upon the self-proclaimed king.

“You go too far Baratheon.” Lord Umber said, his usual jovial nature not at all apparent, “To call a Stark an oath breaker, to claim that our queen will be swayed by a pretty face. You dishonour your host and the alliance we hold.”

Lady Alysane looked murderous and for a moment Brynden was struck by just how loyal the North was to the Starks, how they took the Stark’s honour to be that of their own.

It was impressive and terrifying all at once, that sort of loyalty.

“I-” Baratheon paused and tried to make himself look contrite, “I apologise, Queen Sansa. My words were unfounded.”

Most of the lords looked like they thought his apology was not enough, that he should have prostrated himself and begged for forgiveness.

Sansa though, Sansa merely smiled a cold smile, a smile Brynden had seen but once before on the face of Ned Stark when told about Rhaegar’s death at the Trident.

A shiver ran down his spine, and for the first time he understood what House Stark’s words truly meant. Winter was coming for all those who opposed the Starks, their vengeance as inevitable as the snows. He knew Sansa would not forget that insult, and neither would her brother, and that Stannis Baratheon should be very careful moving forwards.

* * *

“Ellaria, Brynden.” Oberyn keened, something broken in his voice as he sank down into a chair.

The two of them exchanged a glance and rushed to him, never before had they heard him so broken, although Brynden was sure it was what he might have sounded like after the news of Elia’s death reached Dorne.

“We’re here dear heart,” Ellaria soothed, running a gentle hand through Oberyn’s hair.

Brynden merely clutched at Oberyn’s hand, offering support and strength to his lover and friend.

“We thought he was dead.” Oberyn all but sobbed, “We mourned him, and to find he grew up without his family. Without us there. We would have come for him, would have hidden him and raised him in Sunspear.”

“We know, love, it isn’t your way to abandon family.” Brynden said. He kept hold of Oberyn’s hand but also raised his own hand to brush against Oberyn’s cheek.

Oberyn let out a shuddering breath and sunk into the affection they offered him, relaxing slightly as Ellaria continued to pet his hair and Brynden continued to caress his cheek.

“He grew up alone, he grew up outside of Westeros, how did this happen?”

“Oberyn, you thought he was dead. Everyone thought he was dead. It is not your fault.” Ellaria’s voice contained a sort of sharpness that was usually directed at small children. The sort of affectionate sharpness that is sometimes needed to convey just how important a message truly was.

“But-”

Brynden placed a finger over Oberyn’s mouth cutting him off, “No ‘buts’. None of this was your fault, and if I have to beat it into your stupid had then I will. In the meantime, what do you say to some cuddles?”

Oberyn’s eyes shifted to one side and he muttered that cuddling sounded like a nice idea. Brynden let a large grin cross his face as he stood.

“I’ll call for the wolves then, my nieces and nephews swear by wolf cuddles.” He said in a too-innocent tone.

His words had the desired effect for Oberyn scowled up at him, a hint of his usual fire evident in his eyes.

“You aren’t as funny as you think you are Tully.” Oberyn said, prompting both Brynden and Ellaria to laugh.

“Come on then, my grumpy love, we can hardly give you the affection you so crave while sat in this chair now.” Ellaria said, she pulled at Oberyn to get him to stand, “Lets get you over to the bed where we can give you all the attention and affection your heart desires.”

She led Oberyn to the bed and moved him so he was in the middle, she then shot Brynden a look telling him to not try and make anymore jokes and just provide the comfort Oberyn so obviously needed. Brynden was almost insulted by that look, except he did deserve it really for his wolf joke.

He clambered onto the other side of the bed and wrapped an arm around Oberyn, so he was safely ensconced between his two lovers.

“We have you love.” He whispered into Oberyn’s hair and relished the way he relaxed, his muscles untensing and a sigh leaving his lips.

Oberyn had helped him through the revelation that his nephews were alive, now it was his turn to return the favour.

* * *

Brynden understood why Sansa had chosen to send him with the contingent to the Wall, but he was not looking forwards to the air getting even bloody colder. He also was not impressed that Oberyn had chosen to remain behind, citing that his Dornish blood would likely freeze that far North, while Jon had brought along his Wildling.

He comforted himself in the knowledge that at least he would not have to witness any more pining between the two, just the cavity inducing affection they shared freely.

Their journey would be slow, they had prisoners to escort to the Wall, Frey sons and grandsons who had little part in the Red Wedding, and of course, Ramsay Snow.

The Freys were mostly cowed by their time as prisoners, by the cold winds of the North that cut to the bone, by their swift defeat at what they had thought was the peak of their victory.

Snow however, he didn’t shut up, he tried multiple tactics, tried bribing his guards, tried charming his guards, tried threatening his guards. Eventually they had resorted to gagging the bastard and ignoring the death in his eyes.

Brynden would be more than happy to cut him down if he attempted an escape, the only reason he didn’t do it anyway was because it would be undermining Sansa’s rule and he did not want to cause strife for his sweet niece.

He pulled his cloak tighter around himself and tried not to look like he was pouting, Jon was preoccupied with his Wildling and the commanders that Edmure had sent with the Freys were the exactly the people his little shit of a nephew knew he didn’t like.

When he got back to Riverrun he was going to make Edmure pay for that decision, and he might even take pointers from Arya on how best to do it. His niece was always surprisingly vicious.

The knowledge he had nearly a week left of this journey, and that it would only be getting colder from that point onwards, was nearly tear inducing. He didn’t know if he could deal with Snow’s glaring, the Freys quivering, and his nephew’s bloody lovesick looks for an entire week.

At least the Wall would have proper beds. And it was just a check to see if the reports they received at Winterfell were correct.

What could possibly go wrong?


	10. Bran

“It’s time, young Stark, to see the gift the Old Gods will grant you.” Bloodraven said at the start of their lesson.

Bran looked at him with confusion, he had never mentioned a gift before, beyond describing their powers as one.

“Place your hand on the Heart Tree and the Old Gods will show you six visions, two from the past, two from the present, and two of the future. They are for you to learn from, a gift so that you might better do their will.” Bloodraven croaked, looking at Bran with a fearsome intensity.

He placed his hand on the tree as instructed and felt the falling sensation that meant he was entering a vision.

_His eyes opened and the sun burned with a fierce light Bran was unfamiliar with, a fierceness that he was sure would contain a bitter heat if he was there in person. _

_The faces around him were largely unfamiliar, the clothes unfamiliar, the hair styles unfamiliar. _

_But the castle before him could only be one place. _

_Its red stones and tall towers only fit one description of a castle in Westeros. The Red Keep. _

_He was in Kings Landing. _

_A flicker out the corner of his eye caught his attention, a Northern dress that did not fit with the rest of the surroundings. _

_A girl caught up in the grip of a man with a mocking bird upon his breast, as he half dragged her towards a building whose windows were draped with red cloth, cloth fine enough that silhouettes could be seen behind it. A building which stank of perfume and reeked of desperation. _

_When Bran looked closer he realised he recognised the girl, although he had never spent much time with her. It was Jeyne Poole, Sansa’s friend. _

_They had heard no news of what had happened to the Household Father had taken with him to Kings Landing, had assumed they had all been killed along with Father. _

_But by the looks of things, Jeyne might have survived. _

_“Get in here you stupid girl.” The man hissed, and dragged her through the door. Bran followed them. _

_Had he been there in person then his cheeks would have become as red as his hair, the room was filled with half-naked women draped over pieces of plush furniture. _

_“Ros!” The man called out, “I have a task for you.”_

_A red-haired woman responded to the call, she approached the man and Jeyne and looked very confused. _

_“Why do you have a hold of Winterfell’s steward’s daughter, Lord Baelish?” She asked, in a voice tinged with a Northern accent._

_“She’s to live here now. No one is to know her name. she is your responsibility Ros.” Lord Baelish said, roughly tugging on Jeyne’s arm and presenting her to Ros. _

_He waited until Ros had a hold on Jeyne before leaving the building Bran now knew to be a brothel without a backwards look. _

_Bran followed as Ros led Jeyne up the stairs to another room, one which was much plainer than the rest of the building. _

_“I will not harm you, sweetling.” Ros said, guiding Jeyne to sit on one of the hard wooden chairs, “Can you tell me what has happened?” _

_Jeyne started to cry but around her sobs she told Ros, and by extension Bran, of the massacre of the Stark Household, of the capture of Lord Stark and the confinement of Sansa in her room. _

_She had been taken away from Sansa, by order of the Queen, and had been taken from a cell by Lord Baelish. _

_Ros stroked her hair gently and let her cry._

“Sansa is safe Jeyne. She’ll come for you. I know it, just hang on!” Bran yelled, trying to comfort the girl who had been his sister’s best friend.

“They cannot hear you, cannot see you. You cannot change the past, young Stark. Merely watch it and learn from it.” Bloodraven said, a smug tint to his voice.

Bran felt like throwing something but his hands went through anything he tried to touch.

_“You’ll be safe with me, sweetling, I’ll keep you hidden up here until the mess with Lord Stark is sorted out.” Ros comforted, her Northern accent and soft words obviously working to calm Jeyne slightly. _

_When Jeyne eventually slipped into an uneasy sleep Ros stood over her, a protective light in her eyes. _

_As the vision started to slip away Bran heard her speak once more. _

_“For the love of the Starks, I will try my best to protect you, Jeyne Poole of Winterfell.”_

_For some reason it felt as weighty as a vow made before a Heart Tree._

* * *

_The Lannister banners told Bran exactly where he was. This time he was within the Red Keep, in a chamber with a map laid out on a table, stones shaped like House sigils over castles and places Bran knew from lessons were of strategic value. _

_A man in Lannister red and gold, a man that could only be Tywin Lannister stood at the table, glaring down at the map. _

_“My Lord Hand.” A simpering, portly man in violet entered the room, uncaring of the rage on Lannister’s features. _

_“Lord Varys. Do you have any news to report?”_

_Varys smiled, “The taverns are still singing the song about the Starks, and any suggestion of the Rains of Castamere is met with terror. The smallfolk are terrified of bringing the wrath of the gods upon them as though listening to the song will remind them of the Red Wedding. There is quiet support for Queen Sansa, whoever has been in charge of spreading news of her good deeds has done an excellent job.” _

_A furious snarl left Lannister’s lips, he sounded more like the lion of his House than a man for a moment. _

_“Idiots. I told my daughter that the Stark girl was the key to the North, and still she managed to get away. And we can’t even punish Dorne or the Reach for their support of her, Dorne holds my granddaughter and not even the Targaryens could conquer them, and we need the supplies of the Reach, need their food and men.” _

_Varys stepped closer to Lannister and pointed to a place on the map._

_“What about the Stormlands? Can you not rally them to take the Riverlands?” _

_Lannister snarled again, “They’ve all folded before the Targaryen boy. Or are somewhere freezing in the North with Stannis Baratheon. We are rapidly losing allies.” _

_There was something calculating in Varys’ eyes, something that made a shiver run down Bran’s spine. _

_“And what of your son? Ser Jaime is still a prisoner of the Starks, is he not?” _

_Lannister swept his hand out and sent the stone pieces n the map clattering to the floor, causing Bran to jump. _

_“Jaime bent the fucking knee to that bitch. He betrayed his family for the Starks. He is no son of mine.” _

_“Perhaps, my lord, there is a way you could take down the Stark girl. Offer an alliance to Aegon Targaryen, with him will come Dorne and the last of the Targaryen supporters. He could always have an accident afterwards…”_

_Varys’ voice trailed off and Bran watched as a calculating look crossed Tywin Lannister’s face. _

_The vision started to fade once more, but not before he heard Lannister calling for writing implements and a raven._

* * *

_Kings Landing looked very different in the next vision, only recognisable by the Red Keep rising from the smoke and destruction surrounding it. _

_A terrible screech rent the air, and three dragons clashed, twisting and tumbling in a flash of wings and claws and flames. It was a terrible sight. It was a beautiful sight. _

_A dance of death. A dance of dragons. _

_A plume of green flames burst from the ground, the vivid green of wildfire. And as Bran looked around, he could see the destruction this dance had caused in the charred bodies and the rubble littering the ground. _

“Is there any way to stop this from happening?” He asked, turning to Bloodraven with desperate eyes.

“Some events will always come to pass, and a knowledge of the future will not change them. Sometimes the knowledge will be what pushes the events into play, sometimes the knowledge just makes them worse.” Bloodraven sounded like he was speaking from experience and Bran’s heart chilled at the loss in his voice.

_The dragons clashed once more, black, green and white, their roar almost loud enough to drown out the screaming. _

_Almost._

_Ash flew through the air, thick and choking, illuminated by the fires burning. The flames both green and orange. The colours dancing around, almost pretty if not for the destruction and death they caused. _

_With a tremendous roar the white dragon crashed into a building Bran somehow knew to be the Sept of Baelor, it lay there, unmoving as the black and green dragons continued to battle it out. _

_The vision started to fade on the edges but before it did the white dragon opened its eye and looked directly at Bran. Looked at him with a grey eye so familiar, the same shade of grey that did adorn the face of his sister and brother. _

_The dragon looked at him with an eye of Stark Grey._

* * *

_The snows of Winterfell were a welcome change to the heat of the burning city, and for a moment Bran merely relished being home once more. That was, until he saw who exactly was before him in the courtyard._

_His father stood there, younger than Bran had ever seen him, but with a world weariness that contrasted with his youthful features. He couldn’t have been much older than nine-and-ten, yet in his arms was cradled a baby with a tuft of dark hair peeking from the top of his swaddling bonds. _

_“You were lucky Ned,” A man Bran recognised to be his uncle Benjen, said in a rueful voice, “So lucky he didn’t end up with the blonde hair of that shit-stain. That would have been much harder to explain. Why pass him off as your bastard though? Why not attempt to name him Brandon’s?”_

_“Everyone will be too caught up in the scandal of the ‘Honourable Ned Stark’ having a bastard to think too carefully about anything else.” Father said softly, rocking the baby slightly in his arms. _

_With a jolt Bran realised that the baby was Jon. His brother Jon. Who, according to this conversation was not his brother._

_“It’s a good idea Ned, but what about your wife? Your son? Catelyn Tully won’t be happy to return to find a bastard installed in her home. She’ll take it as an insult, as she very well should.” _

_“I know.” His father looked so very young and sad as he spoke, “But what else can I do? He’s the last piece I have of Lyanna, and if Robert were to find out…”_

_Uncle Benjen pulled father into a hug, “He’ll never find out. Not from you, not from me. And we’ll both be here for the boy, he will know he’s loved, like Lyanna would have wanted. What is his name?” _

_Father stroked a finger down Jon’s cheek. _

_“Apparently the shit-stain wanted to call him Aemon, for his uncle at the Wall. Lyanna though, she named him ‘Jon’ for grandmother’s father.”_

_“Jon. It’s a good name, a strong name. even if he never holds the Stark name, he will do our family proud. I know it.” _

* * *

_Bran found himself dragged into another vision, yet again in Winterfell, although this time there was no snow on the ground, and the walls looked stained with smoke. _

_Many people milled around, with multiple House Sigils upon their coats, ones from the Riverlands, the Vale, the North, the Reach and Dorne, and some from the Stormlands even. _

_An event was happening, they were all gathered for a reason. Bran craned his head, searching for four people in particular. _

_He was rewarded with the sight of three of them, of Sansa, Arya and Rickon all exiting the castle to stand in the courtyard, to the wave of bowing that their presence caused. _

_Rickon had grown so much since bran had left him at the Wall, his cheeks were no longer threatening hollowness, and he had gained a few inches in both height and hair length, and his outfit was unusually pristine._

_Arya was relatively unchanged, although he was surprised to see her in trousers instead of a dress, he was sure that Sansa would have made her wear one for whatever event was going on. _

_Sansa, she was a shock indeed, she didn’t look much like the sister who had adored frills and frippery before. Her dress was a sedate, stately grey, and her crown was not made of gold and gems like he might have thought, it was bronze and iron and harsh. _

_His attention was drawn away from his siblings by the clopping of horses’ footsteps, drawn to a procession entering the courtyard from the stables. _

_They were seeing people off then. _

_“We are here to bid a fond farewell and to wish luck for their journey upon the Hand of the Queen and Prince Jon as they travel to the Wall to discern the threat that faces us all.” Sansa said, “Dear uncle, dear brother, I send you off with all the good fortune I can, and wish you speed and fair weather in returning to us.” _

_Her words sang with a strange sort of reverence and Bran could see the way Bloodraven stiffened beside him at them. Likely they were shocking to one with Targaryen blood, a reminder that they had not always been a part of Westeros. _

“Your sister reminds me of a woman I once admired, a woman who could have brought the Seven Kingdoms to her knees should she have so desired.” Bloodraven said, sounding almost fond.

_Bran’s attention turned back to the event before him, he scoured the faces of the men on horseback, trying to spot his brother and uncle. _

_The grey eyes of his brother were so familiar, his face looked lighter than it had since the last time he had seen it. As though the load of the stress he had been under had lessened since returning to Winterfell. _

_His uncle, because who else would have hair that shade of red, rode next to him, and looked at Arya and Rickon with worry filled eyes._

_It was nice to see his family together, but heart wrenching at the same time because he wasn’t there with them. Not in any way they could see him. _

_Bran was almost glad when the vision started to fade into a new one as the procession rode out of Winterfell, any longer and he might have started to tear up at the loneliness he felt. _

* * *

_There was an artificial darkness over Winterfell, a night that contained no moon or stars despite the lack of stars in the sky. _

_A flicker came from a window and Bran willed himself inside to see what was happening, he was not expecting to see Sansa, all alone, wrapped in furs and watching the window forlornly as though in hope of news._

_“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She muttered suddenly. “May the Old Gods and the New watch over my family, if they are gone let them rest in peace, if they remain let them live to see the dawn.” _

_A knock on the door pulled her out of her watchfulness, and as she turned Bran was horrified to see that she did not look much older than she had in his previous vision. _

_“Your Grace,” A maid entered, one Bran did not know, “There are noises coming from the crypts again.” _

_Sansa’s eyes closed and for a moment such pain crossed her face, “Keep the door barricaded. And post men with dragonglass to guard it. If any wight exits then cut them down without mercy, no matter the face they might bare.” _

_“As you wish, Your Grace.” The girl curtsied and hurried off._

_Sansa returned to her place by the window. _

_“If I am to die, let it not be by my brother’s hand, let it not be by the hand of my uncle or aunt. Please, do not consign them to Kinslayers when they have had no choice.” _

_Her voice was so sad that Bran wanted to wrap her in a hug, like Robb had used to do. _

_But the vision darkened once more and Bran let it. _

He gasped awake and promptly vomited what little he had left in his stomach onto the ground by his side. Of the visions he had seen, never before had he seen so many in such close succession, never before had he seen ones that inspired such emotion in him.

“All of them have or will come to pass,” He rasped, looking at Bloodraven, “And there is no changing that?”

Bloodraven shook his head, “As I told you boy, you cannot change the visions, merely learn from them.”

“What was the point of them? If I can’t change what happens, what can I learn from them?”

Bloodraven let out a raspy chuckle, “The Old Gods showed you those for a reason boy. It is not for us to question them. Lest you bring down their wrath upon yourself. And the last person they punished as such is the reason we’re in this mess in the first place.”

Bran did not understand that statement, and he was unwilling to question Bloodraven further, there was something in the man’s eyes that said he would not like the answer.

He closed his eyes instead, and tried to drift off to sleep, tried to ignore the visions still swirling around his head.

Tried to ignore the fear and sadness, the fire and cold, that he had been shown.

He did not succeed.

* * *

He was woken by an unearthly silence, by a sudden and bitter cold, by the frantic shakes of Ygritte as she realised what it meant.

“We need to go now.” She said with unusual solemnity. “They’ve found us.”

There was no need to ask who had found them, only one thing could provoke that amount of fear, only one thing could bring the cold and stop even the birds from singing.

The Others had found them.

Bran scrambled to gather his heavy cloak, the one he did not need in the cave but would certainly need if they were to travel anywhere if he did not want to freeze to death.

He was lifted into Hodor’s arms, even as one of the Children of the Forest came to the with a bow in their hands.

“There is a route out the back. We will slow them for as long as we can. You must get below the Wall, the Three-Eyed Raven cannot be allowed to die at the hands of the Others else their power will grow beyond all measure.” They said, gesturing to the back of the cave, past where Bloodraven rested.

Meera thanked the Child as she hoisted her suddenly pale brother off of the cold floor and made him start moving in the direction the Child had indicated.

They all knew that the Children of the Forest would be unable to hold off the Others for long, not when any losses on their side were reinforcements for the Others.

They could only hope that the last stand of the Children of the Forest gave them enough time to get a large enough head start that they would make it to the Wall before the Others caught them.

They rushed through the halls of the cave, twisting and turning and ignoring the clashes and screams from behind them that echoed off the stone walls.

Rushed until they emerged through a stone door into cold air and heavy snow and bright light.

The noise from behind them was getting closer and Summer pounced at a wight that had managed to catch them. He tore its head off and let it wall to the ground where it clawed around aimlessly.

Ygritte and Meera exchanged looks, looks that Bran did not like.

“One of us should stay here. It’s a choke point. We’ll be able to slow them for a while.” Meera said softly, looking almost resigned.

Bran felt horror rush through his bones.

“You can’t. I need you. I need you both. Please.” He choked out, ashamed of the way tears prickled at his eyes.

“I’ll stay.” Ygritte said, preparing her bow, “I’ll be no use Below the Wall, but I can do good here.”

It looked like the two were going to argue over who would get to make the sacrifice play.

And then something happened that none of them had expected.

Hodor shifted and manouvered Bran so that he was placed upon Ygritte’s back.

“Hodor.” He said simply and moved so his whole body weight was against the door. “Hodor.”

There was a moment of stillness before Meera and Ygritte shot into action. They ran as fast as they could, away from the door, Summer at their heels and Jojen stumbling after them.

Bran turned his head and watched as Hodor got smaller and smaller behind them, as the man who had carried him so far from Winterfell disappeared into the distance until he was gone from sight.

A loud crash and inhuman screeching sounded mere minutes later and Bran felt a tear fall as he knew what that meant.

Hodor was gone.

They picked up even more speed, the screeches causing another burst of adrenaline, but they could not keep the pace up for long.

Eventually they slowed, tiring at the run through the snow, tiring at the weight of the supplies they carried. tiring at the weight of Bran himself.

The birds still made no noise, and the air was still cold enough to cut through layers of clothing right to the bone, but they could go on no further. Not without a chance to catch their breaths, not without some form of sustenance.

A crash in the bushes had them all upright once more, had them all alert.

Summer’s hackles raised and Jojen looked as pale as death, as though he knew something they did not. Ygritte and Meera both raised their bows, as best they could and prepared to take down as many as they could.

The figure that emerged from the trees was so unexpected that Bran let out a small yelp.

“Uncle Benjen?” Bran could hardly believe his eyes, the last he had heard his uncle was lost, presumed dead. And yet he stood before him, his clothes splashed in the black blood of the wights.

Uncle Benjen did not respond, merely swept him from Ygritte’s back so he was against his chest and started to run. When he peeked over his uncle’s shoulder Bran could see that Ygritte and Meera had started running again, their bows at their sides.

Jojen stumbled more than anything, he was leant heavily against Summer and it was shock that Bran recognised on his face.

“We need to keep moving.” Uncle Benjen said finally, “Until the sun rises at least. With the rise of the sun they will be slowed, the powers of the Others will be lessened.”

His words were hopeful and despair inducing at once. They had a goal to reach, to survive until the dawn.

But dawn was still hours away.


	11. Jon

“Ser Alliser, its so good to see you again.” Jon smiled viciously, taking enjoyment in the hatred on Alliser Thorne’s face and the exasperation in Brynden’s.

He was being petty, he knew, but that did not stop it from feeling so good.

“Ser Brynden, Prince Jon, Lady Melisandre.” Ser Alliser looked pained, “Rooms have been readied for you as Queen Sansa requested. And I believe you have some new recruits for us?”

Brynden shot Jon a warning glance as he stepped forwards.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Commander, we do have recruits for you, hopefully they are a step up from the usual rabble you end up with. Or all of them have some training with a blade at least.”

He made a gesture and the prisoners were brought forwards, the Freys trembling in the cold, and Ramsey Snow glaring at everyone around him.

“Welcome to Castle Black, here is where you’ll likely live out the rest of your miserable lives.” Ser Alliser addressed them, “Grenn here will show you to the recruits’ barracks and get you some clothing. I must warn you, that as you were sentenced to the Wall any attempt to leave before you take your vows will be taken as an escape attempt and you will be executed as deserters.”

Grenn barely looked a Jon as he walked past, inspiring a sharp pang of hurt at the way his friend so easily ignored him, Grenn gathered up the new recruits and took them to the barracks with Pyp, neither even glancing at Jon as they did so.

Jon shoved the hurt down deep, he had known that returning wouldn’t be the same.

“You must excuse me, my lords,” Ser Alliser said once the recruits were gone, “I need to make arrangements for the outfitting and training of the new recruits. A steward will be along shortly to show you to your quarters.”

He turned and left and the crowd stated to mill away, leaving but a few people behind. None of which Jon recognised beyond having exchanged passing glances.

Jon smiled at a brother of the Watch that approached them, he was very pretty, with long black curls and soft, delicate features. The brother smiled back, a soft flush on his cheeks.

Jon jumped when a claiming hand wrapped around his waist and Tormund squeezed possessively.

“Is there something about the Watch that attracts pretty boys?” Tormund growled in Jon’s ear. His hot breath made Jon shudder slightly, the heat a sudden contrast to the frigid air.

“The Lord Commander asked me to attend to you, Ser Brynden and the Lady Melisandre for the duration of your stay.” The pretty brother said, “I’m Satin Flowers, one of the stewards.”

There was almost certainly more to the story than that, Alliser Thorne wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to insult Jon in some way, even if it was hidden under the veil of courtesy.

“Thank you.” Jon said, “Would you be willing to show us to our rooms, its been a long journey and I know I’d appreciate the chance to freshen up.”

The pretty steward bowed and led them up the stairs in one of the towers, to a set of rooms that Jon recognised.

“The Lord Commander thought you would be comfortable in these rooms.”

Brynden looked around and nodded, “Thank you, lad, this will do nicely. We’ll do the inspection Queen Sansa asked for in the morning. We’ve also been asked to ensure that the recruits we brought settle in. There are a couple of troublemakers among them and hopefully the sword above their neck will make them behave.”

The steward smiled, “Of course, my lords. Would you prefer to eat in your rooms or among the men?”

“We’ll eat among the men I think, it will allow us to get a sense of what support Her Grace might be able to offer.” Brynden said, wit a thoughtful expression.

“Very good, my lords. I shall come and lead you to the Hall when it is time for the evening meal. Until then, if you have any need of me please just call.” The steward bowed and as he left, he brushed past Jon, his voice lowered and he all but purred as he spoked his next words quiet enough that only Jon could hear them, And I do mean _any_ reason, my lord.”

Jon watched him leave, and found himself appreciating the graceful way the steward walked.

When he turned to Tormund, he was surprised by an emotion he had not seen before in his lover’s eyes.

He looked almost jealous.

* * *

“Jon? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Sam called out to him as Jon sat down to eat breakfast.

One thing Jon most certainly had not missed was the quality of the food at Castle Black.

He sat next to his friend, the first one to speak to him since he had arrived. The first one to treat him no differently.

“How’s Thorne been treating you?” Jon asked as he debated on whether or not he was hungry enough to actually eat the lumpy porridge before him.

“Its not so bad. I’ve been working with Maester Aemon mostly, he’s been talking about sending me to the Citadel to learn to take his place.” Sam said, “How’s your new title treating you?”

Jon let out a light laugh, “I now hold a great sympathy for my father when he was raising me, my little brother and sisters are likely to turn my hair grey before too long. It really doesn’t help that Arya has made friends with the Old Bear’s niece, the two of them take great delight in ‘testing the reflexes’ of the guards. Anyway, who was it you wanted me to meet?”

Sam looked up and around the room, his eyes lit up when he saw whoever it was he was looking for and he gestured for them to join them at the table.

Jon was shocked when a thin girl, with large brown eyes and thin brown hair, clutching a baby sat at their table. He had not expected whoever it was that Sam wanted him to meet would be a girl.

“This is Gilly.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady. What are you doing here, with a baby no less?” Jon questioned.

Gilly looked up at him with a fierceness reminiscent of Ygritte, “I am no lady, I’m just Gilly. Sam saved me and my boy. He brought us below the Wall, before everyone else came.”

Jon looked up at Sam with a piercing look, “Did he? How did he meet you?”

Sam shuffled in place, sweating slightly, even as Gilly answered.

“He saved us from Crastor. I was one of his daughters and his wives.”

That would make sense, for where else would Sam have met a Free Folk woman who didn’t try and kill him? There was more he needed to know though, especially if Sam was aiming for what Jon thought he was.

“But why are you here? Why at Castle Black instead of one of the Free Folk encampments? Surely you would be more comfortable there?”

Gilly dropped her gaze, “The Free Folk don’t like us, they think we’re cursed. Think we’ll bring misfortune upon them. I have nowhere else to go.”

Sam cleared his throat, “I was hoping you would have a place for her, at Winterfell. She and the babe cannot stay here too long, else Thorne’s patience runs out and he gets rid of her.”

So Sam was angling for Jon to take her with him when he left. Jon had thought so.

“I’m sure we could find a place for her. The kitchens always need more help if nothing else. Brynden will need to agree though, I can’t just sneak her into our company.”

Despite his warnings Sam’s face split into a wide smile and he thanked Jon profusely. A smile and thanks enough that Jon assumed there was more to his feelings for Gilly than friendship

And from the smile she sent Sam’s way, it might not be unrequited.

* * *

The Maester’s tower had not changed at all since Jon had last entered it. It held piles of books and papers, bottles and vials on shelves around the room, and pots of herbs grew in the weak light over the small window. It smelt of must and earth and the particular tang of medicine.

It was strangely comforting.

When he looked upon Maester Aemon, Jon searched his features for any that might be familiar. And they were, the cheekbones before him were the same as the ones he saw on his own face in the mirror, the shape of their ears was the same, and there was something about the curl of Maester Aemon’s remaining hair that was so similar.

“Are you just going to stand there boy, or are you going to say what you came for.” Maester Aemon croaked.

His words jolted Jon out of the reverie he had fallen into and made him shut the door and cross the room until he was knelt in front of the sitting Maester.

“Maester Aemon,” He said softly, “I learnt something while among my family, something I thought you might be interested in.”

A dry, soft hand moved so it was upon his head, “and what could the son of Ned Stark have learnt that would interest a Targaryen? Tell me, dear boy. I will not spread it unless you wish me to.”

Jon took a deep breath, he had not spoken of this since his sister had told him, had thrust it to the back of his mind in all honesty.

“I found out who my parents were. My mother, my father, and the name he wished me to have. My mother was Lyanna Stark, my father Rhaegar Targaryen.” He spoke quickly before the Maester could interrupt, “And they named me for you. They wanted my name to be Aemon.”

Maester Aemon’s breath caught in his throat and his hands moved to explore Jon’s face.

“You have his features; you have Egg’s features.” Master Aemon sounded like he was close to tears, “I’m not alone. And they, they named you for me?”

“Aye, Father thought that would be too obvious though, if he wanted to raise me as his bastard. Not if he wanted to keep me safe from King Robert.”

Maester Aemon had tears trickling down his cheeks, “I would have you call me uncle, dear boy, the way your father once did. And I would tell you stories, of the times before Summerhall, when the word was a little brighter for our family.”

Jon was not overly interested in stories of the Targaryens, he was a Stark, but he knew they would bring the old Maester peace and so he would acquiesce.

But first, he had one more peace of news for him.

“There is other news, uncle, we received news from Storm’s End before we travelled up here, my half-brother, Aegon Targaryen, survived the sack of Kings Landing. He’s taken Storm’s End and wishes for an alliance against the Lannisters with my sister.”

“Oh my dear boy, you have brought me the most wonderful news. I will tell you these stories and you must pass them on for me. You must pass on the history of our family. And if I am not gone when he comes North, you must send him to me.”

Jon could not do anything but promise to do so, he would bring Aegon to see master Aemon if he could.

He then settled, in, still at the feet of the Maester, to listen to the stories Maester Aemon chose to tell him.

“My brother an I always used to pretend we had hatched dragon eggs when we were children, we could often be fond pretending to fly around the halls of the Red Keep. Well one day, the Lord Stark at the time and his son found us…”

* * *

When Jon returned to his chamber to collect clothing suitable to go on top of the Wall he was surprised to see Tormund sat glaring at the door. He had assumed that Tormund would have taken the time to travel to the nearby Free Folk encampment to check up on his people.

“Finally remembered I’m here have you?” Tormund asked in a tone Jon did not recognise.

“What are you talking about Tormund? I spent all evening and last night with you, I just went to speak with Maester Aemon and my friend, that’s all.” Jon knew his confusion was showing though in his voice but he didn’t care, he was confused by Tormund’s words and tone.

“Not spending the time panting after that pretty boy then? I’m sure he would be more than happy to obey a Prince.”

“I have no clue what you mean. All I did was smile at Satin, that’s hardly an action worth your ire.”

Tormund snorted and suddenly Jon was filled with a hot burst of anger.

“I am not a thing, or possession. If I want to smile at someone I fucking well can.” Jon half-yelled, “I’m not the one with four bloody kids running around.”

Tormund stood up and banged his hand on the table, “No, yer just the lad who had to have everything bloody pointed out to him. The lad who never fucking thinks about what’s in front of him and is quite happy to flirt with some pretty piece of arse when I am stood beside him.”

Jon’s anger cooled into an icy rage, “If you are so insecure that a friendly smile is enough to make you doubt my feelings for you then you are not the man I thought you were. Now get out before I do something stupid like break my fist on your face.”

Tormund stormed out of the room but not without a parting shot.

“if you wanted me to leave so you could fuck the boy in peace then you only had to say, after all we should all kneel to your family in gratitude shouldn’t we.”

As the door slammed behind him Jon let out an incoherent screech of rage and threw a metal pitcher at the door so that it landed with a satisfying crash.

When he went to pick it up though, he felt his eyes prickle with tears.

He didn’t want to lose Tormund over a stupid fight.

* * *

Jon was not sulking when he sat in his chamber, it was the same one he had used to share with Rickon, and it was strange to be back without his baby brother to run after. He had told Brynden that he wished for some time to himself after the evening meal, and his uncle had agreed with a worried look. Tormund had not reacted.

He did not turn around as the door to his chamber opened, he would not give Tormund the satisfaction of knowing how much he missed him. Their argument had been petty and yet he was hurt by the accusations that he would ever be unfaithful, that he would ever prefer someone delicate and pretty when he could have Tormund by his side.

He waited for an arm to be slung over his shoulders or around his waist, or for words to be spoken. A friend or Brynden come to talk to him, or Tormund come to apologise.

But none of those came, only soft steps coming closer.

And closer.

And closer.

A hand slapped its way over his mouth and a sharp pain pierced through his chest.

The air left his lungs in one fell swoop and darkness began to tinge the edges of his vision and blood filled his mouth.

“Our blades are sharp, bastard.” The words were whispered in his ear, with the softness of a lover.

A strange numbness began to overtake his body and his legs failed him, the only sensation a cold throb from his chest.

The figure moved around and ice eyes stared at him, with something almost akin to lust.

He tried to shout. To warn people. To call for help.

The Bolton bastard just placed a finger on his lips.

“None of that now, bastard.” The finger was removed, “Give my regards to your brother.”

Wormy lips pressed against his own, the last sensation that he felt before the darkness took his vision.

And then it was just…

D 

a

r

k

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Insert evil laughter*


	12. Brynden

The Wall was impressive, Brynden would admit that. It was also bloody cold and manned by a force of men who looked like they would rather be anywhere else.

He didn’t like what it had done to his nephew though, the way he had started to fold in on himself when the people Brynden assumed used to be his friends ignored him. It had left Jon short-tempered and irritable, and he had exploded as Brynden had thought he might.

Brynden was concerned about Jon and to a lesser extent Tormund, they had just had their first fight from the looks of things and it would do them no good to dwell on the hurt they had caused each other.

When Jon had begged off from socialising with the watch after the evening meal, Brynden had let him, it would probably do the lad good to have some time to himself for once. But he had vowed to himself that he would check up on him before retiring for the night, would try and determine why exactly Jon and Tormund were fighting and whether he could do anything to help.

He had reached the bottom of the stairs of the tower which contained their rooms when a mournful howl rent the air. A howl so full of pain and loss that Brynden stumbled.

No… it couldn’t be.

He dashed up the stairs, crashing into the wall at points when he could not turn fast enough. If Ghost was howling like that then it could only mean one thing.

He prayed to every god that he was wrong.

But the open door dashed what little remained of his hope.

And if his hope was dashed by the door, the scene inside crushed his heart.

His nephew lay a white as the snows outside and as still as the stones themselves. A pool of red surrounded him, staining his grey tunics a deep crimson.

Brynden could hardly drag his eyes from the corpse, but managed to react in time to block the dagger aimed his way.

It all made sense when he saw his assailant.

Ramsay Snow laughed and swung at him again with a bloodstained blade, his gaze as cold as the Wall itself.

“You didn’t think I’d come quietly now did you? I, who am descended from the Red Kings of Old? It’s a shame you arrived so quickly; I was just about to make myself a cape like my ancestors wore.”

Brynden swallowed down bile at those implications, the Red Kings had worn cloaks made of the skin of Starks, that was known by many, and for Snow to have made that suggestion…

“You will die for your treachery, bastard. Will die for the disregard of the mercy we showed you. This I promise.”

Snow just let out a giggle and swiped at Brynden once more.

This time though, Brynden managed to grab hold of his wrist and twisted until the blade was dropped. He kept a hold on Snow’s arm and twisted it behind his back while moving his own dagger so it was against the bastard’s throat.

“Move one inch and I’ll cut your throat shallowly enough that you drown in your own blood.” He hissed against Snow’s ear, twisting the man’s arm enough that it came out of its socket with a sickening ‘pop’.

He had no mercy in him anymore. Not when he had just lost another nephew. Not when someone had already thrown their mercy back at them.

There was a skittering of claws on stone and the thud of heavy footsteps outside the chamber, Brynden did not turn to see who it was, he already knew.

A heavy keen filled the air and a rush of ginger flew past Brynden to Jon’s side.

Tormund lifted Jon’s cold body in his arms and keened once more, his pain and misery evident in every line of his body.

Ghost sat next to hm and licked at Jon’s cheek, as though he could convince him to wake up with through affection alone. When it did not work and the keen of Tormund just increased, Ghost joined in, howling his pain and sorrow so that all could hear.

In Brynden’s grip Snow giggled again, a nasty noise that Brynden eventually could not take anymore.

He took hold of Snow’s hair and bashed his head against a wall until the bastard was unconscious with blood trailing down the side of his face.

His death would be a spectacle and a warning.

No one could harm Brynden’s family while he still lived without suffering the consequences.

* * *

Ser Alliser had tried to protest Brynden being the one to pass the sentence on Snow, but he had no leg to stand on. It was his men who had failed to keep a recruit from killing a guest, and while they could not be punished by Brynden, Ramsay Snow who had not yet taken his vows most certainly could.

He had dragged the bastard into the centre of the courtyard at Castle Black, dragged him by his dislocated arm uncaring of the pain it must have put Snow in.

Well, not uncaring, rather enjoying in actual fact, although he dd not let it show on his face.

“Ramsay Snow, this is not a trial, this is a sentencing. For the murder of Jon Stark, a prince of the North, the Vale and the Riverlands, in the name of Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, the Trident and the Vale, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm, I Brynden Tully, Hand of the Queen, sentence you to die. If you have any final words, I will hear them.” He would do this in the way of the North, in Jon’s honour, for his nephew would be displeased if justice was not dispensed properly.

Snow spat out a mouthful of blood and grinned up at him, “It’s a shame I never got my hands on the Stark bitch, I’m sure the queen would have been great sport.”

A red haze settled across Brynden’s vision as he pushed Snow’s head into the divot on the block. He would not dignify the bastard with an answer, no matter how much he might want to let his rage show.

He did allow his blade to slip as he brought it down, allowed the cut to need four blows instead of one, laid one across the top of the shoulders instead of the neck. He would not provide a painless death for one who hurt his family.

Eventually Snow’s head was in the mud and blood seeped from his neck. The bastard was dead and could not harm him family any longer.

But now he had to deal with Jon’s body.

* * *

They had laid him out on a stone table, in the room the watch used to prepare their dead. it was colder in the room, one of its walls was The Wall.

He looked so young, so small, laid out on the table, and Brynden had a pang of regret for not letting Ghost eat Ramsay Snow like he had been tempted to.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Tormund asked the Maester.

None of them needed the Maester to shake his head to know the answer, Tormund had only asked to feel like he had exhausted every option.

Another figure slipped into the room, but Brynden paid them little mind, they were likely there to assist the Maester or deliver a message of some kind.

“I might be able to offer assistance, my lord.” A surprisingly female voice spoke up, and as the figure took down their hood the blood red curls of Stannis’ witch were revealed.

“Lady Melisandre,” Brynden bowed his head slightly, not liking someone did not mean one should be discourteous, “What do you mean by that? What assistance could you offer?”

She smiled a smile that was probably meant to be seductive but just looked pained to Brynden.

“My order can sometimes do things deemed impossible, and while I have never tried this trick before, others in my order have succeeded on multiple occasions.”

Brynden felt a bolt of cold go down his spine at those words, he knew what she was speaking of, what that could do to a person. It had happened to Cat, she had been brought back, but she had come back wrong.

It would break his nieces and nephews if their brother came back wrong, perhaps more than his death would.

At least in death memories were not tainted, not in the way he knew Sansa and Arya’s memories of their mother were now forever tainted by the monster she had become.

“No.” He said, shaking his head, “I won’t put his siblings through the trauma of it going wrong. Of him coming back wrong.”

Something flickered in Melisandre’s eyes, “You know of someone who came back then.”

“Aye, my niece. Jon’s stepmother. She came back twisted and wrong; her daughters still have nightmares about it.”

Tormund let out a deep sigh and moved to lay his hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“I say we give her a chance, if, if the worst should happen then we can, we can always release him.”

The words were said shakily, as though Tormund could not believe what he was saying. Brynden himself could hardly believe what he was hearing, it was so callous and yet, it might just work as a plan.

“He shouldn’t come back wrong, other than his death he has not recently lived through a traumatic experience, and he will come back surrounded by loved ones. All the research says he should come back largely unchanged.”

The thought that this had been researched made Brynden feel a little sick, how many people had they brought back wrong until the discovered the right conditions?

“Fine.” He eventually said, after warring with himself in his mind, “Bring him back, if you can.”

He could have sworn flames began to flicker within the witch’s eyes as a catlike smirk of satisfaction graced her face.

“Very good my lords,” She purred, before her voice changed to be commanding, “Bring me a lit brazier, a pair of silver scissors and a pitcher of water and cloth to go with it.”

The Maester’s assistant, a portly boy with the look of the Reach, hurried to fetch the implements that Lady Melisandre had requested.

She then turned to Tormund and Brynden, “I shall need to access his wound, would you rather I undress him or one of you does it?”

“We’ll do it.” Tormund said roughly, “He always was uncomfortable without his layers on around other people, I would spare him that indignity at least.”

The two of them gently stripped away his bloodstained tunics, the layers of grey cloth tugging slightly from where the blood stains had stuck them to his skin.

His skin was so pale, so cold, the wound through his heart a bright red, the only spot of colour, almost garish in its brightness.

They had just finished removing them when the assistant returned, followed by people carrying the materials Melisandre had requested.

The witch shooed them all to stand at the edges of the room, and started circling Jon’s body. She took hold of the scissors and cut pieces of Jon’s hair, muttering something over each curl and throwing it onto the lit brazier until the room was filled with the faint tinge of burning hair.

She moved on to bathing his chest, wiping away the blood from around the wound with the water and cloth provided, and when the wound was clean the cloth also went in the flames.

Melisandre placed her hand on Jon, on either side of the wound, and began to chant, her words a mixture of High Valyrian and other languages that Brynden did not recognise. She repeated the same set of words over and over with a blazing intensity until she suddenly stopped, panting ever so lightly.

Ghost raised his head from his paws when Melisandre finished her chanting, he let out a light whine and padded forwards until his head was level with Jon’s hand, hanging limply from the table.

The direwolf licked Jon’s palm and let out another soft whine, as though he was calling back his master.

Silence fell upon the room when the whine faded away.

Suddenly Jon’s eyes flew open and a scream tore from his lips. A tortured scream, one calling to mind all the horrors of the world.

Brynden and Tormund both rushed forwards, until they were on either side of him. Brynden could hardly believe that Melisandre had succeeded in bringing Jon back, although that scream would haunt his nightmares for years to come.

He grasped at Jon’s hand, his hand that was still as cold as ice, and started to rub it, tried to warm it with his own.

“You’re safe Jon, you’re safe. We have you.” He murmured, watching his nephew’s face for any signs of him calming down.

It was not until Tormund started carding his hand through Jon’s hair that his nephew started to calm and his breathing became slightly less panicked.

“We’re here pretty crow, we’re here. You aren’t alone.” Tormund soothed, keeping up with his gentle carding.

Jon slowly began to settle, and he showed no signs of the rage that had filled Lady Stoneheart, but his hands remained cold and his eyes remained frightened.

That didn’t matter, they would remain with him for as long as he needed them.

* * *

Two blasts sounded from the horn at the top of the Wall, a loud, clear sound that found its way into every corner of Castle Black.

Brynden had been in the kitchens, trying to find something to drown out the sound f his nephew’s screams. The bustle around him had stopped at the sound, the men looking confused and worried in equal measures.

“There aren’t supposed to be anymore Wildlings,” One muttered, “They should’ve all come below the Wall.”

That would explain the confusion, who could it be if the Free Folk were all supposed to be Below the Wall, unless…

He sprinted out of the kitchens towards the gates, uncaring of the people he pushed past and knocked over in his haste.

There was only one person he knew of that was Beyond-the-Wall, and if this was truly them then he would finally have some good news to take back to Winterfell.

The gates opened a crack when he ordered them to and he darted through them into the tunnel beneath the Wall.

He was joined by Ser Alliser and a small force of men baring arms, in case the arrivals were not friendly.

When the doors at the other end of the tunnel finally opened Brynden saw that he was right.

Two girls in heavy furs, a pale-faced boy, a direwolf and there, right in the centre, his sweet young nephew.

Except his nephew was cradled in the arms of a man who looked weirdly familiar.

With shock Brynden realised that the man holding his nephew was the thought-dead Benjen Stark. To his slight horror his second thought upon gazing upon the other uncle of his nephews and nieces, is that he could see why Cat was so enamoured of her husband and his older brother.

They moved no further forwards, remained staying just inside the gate for some reason.

Brynden moved forwards, his arms ready to take Bran from Benjen Stark, he would hardly be ready to believe that his nephew was back safe until he had held him in his arms.

“Uncle Brynden?” Bran looked up at him with wide blue eyes.

“Aye, I’m here. Do you think you could introduce me to your companions, little one?”

Bran curled up into his arms, a comforting weight.

“That’s Ygritte, and Meera and Jojen Reed, and Uncle Benjen. He saved us.”

Brynden raised his eyes to meet the flat grey of Stark’s, “You have my thanks, Lord Benjen.”

“And you have mine, Ser Brynden, for protecting my brother’s children when I was unable to.” Benjen’s voice was strangely flat, and it was then that the true pallor of his skin registered.

The reports of Benjen Stark’s death were perhaps not as unfounded as they had first appeared.

“I am unable to cross beneath the Wall, not without damaging the magic that holds it up.” Benjen continued, “And there are the Others on our tail. I shall have to leave soon, if I do not want them to catch me. Keep them safe, and Gods willing, I will have the chance to see them again.”

He shot a last, lingering look at his nephew and turned to leave before the Nights Watch could approach him.

“Benjen,” He called out before the man was out of view, “Your niece is queen, if you ever want to come home after all this is over, just send a message.”

The man raised a hand in acknowledgement before disappearing into the snow storm outside.

Brynden pulled Bran a little closer to him, “Come along then, lets get you four a nice hot meal, and a bed to rest in, I’m sure you’re all exhausted.”

* * *

The reunion between Bran and Jon was sweet and put paid to the fears Brynden still had about Jon coming back wrong.

Jon had gathered Bran into his arms and started to choke sobs into his neck, had all but curled around him, as though he could shield him from everything.

He had refused to look up from his brother, even when the others had greeted him, including the girl Ygritte who had greeted him with an astounding familiarity.

She had ended up being taken off to one side by Tormund, and the two had discussed something in the corner with unusually solemn expressions. Although at one point Ygritte had punched Tormund in the shoulder and let out a bark of laughter, a response Brynden assumed was to news of Jon and Tormund’s relationship.

The Reed siblings had curled up together and fallen asleep almost instantly, and Brynden was considering getting the Maester to check on them when they awoke. Each of them looked pale and thin, although whether the paleness was from illness or exhaustion he would have to wait and see.

If Oberyn was here he would have made a joke about Brynden taking even more ducklings under his wings. 

But Oberyn wasn’t, so Brynden manoeuvred around the direwolves curled up together so that he could reach his nephews.

He could take a few moments to just rest with them, to pull them into his arms and reassure himself that they were alive.

That he hadn’t lost any more family.

* * *

The horns blew three blasts and the men of the Watch sprung into action. They were like a well-oiled machine, with many going to the top of the Wall with buckets of arrows and pitch, others making a stand before the great doors leading to Beyond-the-Wall.

He grabbed hold of one man, one with a look of terror on his face, and asked him where the Lord Commander was. He would contribute to the fight in any way he could, but did not want to cause problems for the coordination of the defence.

He found Ser Alliser by the pull cage for the ascension of the Wall, directing those carrying supplies and attempting to remain calm in the face of the attack by monsters out of myth.

“Ser Alliser.” He greeted, pretending not to see the sigh of relief that Ser Alliser let out at the sight of him.

“Thank the gods, Tully, you have experience in battle, far more than most of these men. I need to direct from the top of the Wall, can you take command down here? You’ll be a damn sight better than most of these green boys.”

Brynden inclined his head slightly, “Of course, Lord Commander. Show me who you want me to lead and I shall do my best.”

Ser Alliser grinned, “It would be my genuine pleasure.”

* * *

The attack force was smaller than Brynden would have expected, less than a hundred wights and a single white walker. With slowly increasing horror he realised that it was merely a scouting party, a group come to test their defences.

And it was likely they would find them lacking.

Jon had insisted on joining the fight so Brynden had sent him to join the archers on top of the Wall, he was still so weak from his resurrection that Brynden didn’t trust his reflexes to protect him in a sword fight.

Jon had pressed his sword into Brynden’s hands, telling him that Valyrian steel would do a better job against the wights than normal steel. It was strange to be using a different sword, but he had adjusted fairly quickly.

You did not survive three wars without being able to adapt to a new weapon when necessary.

They had forced the wights into the chokepoint that was the tunnel below the Wall, the door at their backs was shut, and the one leading out to Beyond was open, the better to reduce the damage to it.

Brynden had taken command of the men on the ground, Ser Alliser had taken control of the archers, and their defence was as coordinated as a last minute one could be.

He had sent Tormund to guard over Bran, had trusted no one else to do so, not with Jon on top of the Wall and Freys roaming the castle.

He himself was leading a group of green boys, ones who had had far too little training, but were all that were left of the rangers after the failed Great Ranging.

The stench of fear permeated the tunnel, alongside a scent of rot, a scent that none had described in their descriptions of the wights, but that made a painful sense to behold.

His sword, Jon’s sword, was the only one that seemed to have any effect on the wights, was the only one that kept them down, the others had to resort to dismembering to lessen the danger of them.

They would have to find out some material other than Valyrian Steel that would kill the wights if they wanted to have any chance in the war against the Undead.

Most of the wights were dead or too dismembered to be a danger when the white walker retreated away from the Wall, leaving its troops behind, likely to report to whoever or whatever its leader was about the strength of the Watch.

As soon as it was just a pile of twitching torsos and limbs Brynden gave the signal for the gate leading Beyond to shut and for the one leading to Castle Black to open. They could likely use the torsos to find a material that would work against the undead, and he might even be able to take one South if proof was needed by the lords in order to send reinforcements to the Wall.

He would need to find some way to transport it though, some way that would hopefully contain the smell.

Else he might just vomit before they got it anywhere near Winterfell, let alone Kings Landing or Storm’s End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not so cruel as to actually kill Jon off, although your reactions were very much enjoyed! 
> 
> I was thinking about writing a few one-shot pieces of scenes from other characters' points of view, is there any scene or character you would like to see in particular?


	13. Sansa

Sansa woke up with terror coursing through her body, her heart pounding and an inability to catch her breath.

For once it was just her and Arya sharing a bed, Rickon had chosen to sleep with Osha, he had not taken well to Jon and their Uncle leaving and needed the comfort that Osha provided him.

She threw back the cover and stumbled out of the bed into the cold air, leaving Arya to curl up into a small ball with a light grumble.

As she turned back to tuck the covers around Arya she froze, the reason for her terror became apparent.

On the sheets, just where she had been sleeping, were a few spots of red. Her moon blood.

It had not affected her too much when they were on the road and had first moved back into Winterfell, she had been too busy and she had known that her uncle and brother would fight off anyone who tried to reduce her to nothing more than a baby maker. But with them both gone…

She half ran away from the bed into the small privy, where she scrubbed at her thighs as though she could hide the evidence.

With that single sight she was back in Kings Landing once more, no longer a queen in her own right, but a scared hostage, no longer a wolf but a little dove.

When the trickle of blood just would. Not. Stop. She curled up into a small ball, hiding herself from the world.

She did not know how long had passed when Arya found her there, she only knew it was her sister when, despite her flinching, a small hand settled on her hair and stroked gently.

“Oh Sansa,” Arya sounded so sad and that was just wrong, “Stay here, I’ll go find someone who can help.”

The hand left her hair and Sansa was alone once more.

She knew she should get up and start her duties but she just couldn’t bring herself to.

It could have been minutes or hours before the door to her chambers opened again. A different hand rested on her brow, a larger, warmer one.

“Sweetling, shall we get you cleaned up?” The comforting, lilting accent of Ellaria greeted her, “Your sweet sister has asked for a bath to be drawn in your rooms, and I think that shall make you feel much better.”

She gently pulled Sansa to her feet and led her out to the bed chamber, where true to her words, a steaming bath was waiting for her.

The faint scent of lemons and pine needles filled the air and pot of scrubs and scented oils stood on the dressing table, just waiting to be used.

Ellaria help Sansa out of her sleep shift and into the hot water, her hands kind and her expression motherly. She handed Sansa a soft cloth with which to wash herself and bustled around, putting her sleep shift to soak in cold water and laying out clothing for Sansa to wear.

The hot water and the scents helped to calm Sansa as much as the direwolf tapestry on the wall did, they reminded her that she was no longer under Cersei Lannister’s thumb, that she was safe in Winterfell and surrounded by people who did not care for her solely for the sons she might one day bear.

When the water began to cool Sansa was helped out of the tub and wrapped in a large fluffy towel until she was completely dry, then assisted into her softest clothing, each piece chosen for the comfort it could offer more than anything. Every touch was kind, every word soft, until she felt cocooned in love and comfort.

It was as different from Kings Landing as it could possibly be.

“There we are sweetling,” Ellaria said, gently braiding Sansa’s hair up, “I think you and I shall have a calm day today; I know that the glass gardens need some attention paying to them, shall we spend the day there? I’ll invite some of the others to join us and we shall spend the day planting some of the seeds that Garlan and Leonette brought with them. How does that sound?”

Sansa didn’t really have to think about it, a day like that sounded lovely, but she had so much still to do. She had to check the inventories, had planned to check on the progress of Wintertown, she had to finalise some of the arrangements for the rapidly approaching visit of Robin Arryn, and all that was on top of the daily tasks that went into running a household. And that was without ensuring Rickon was eating and safe and that Arya and Lyanna Mormont didn’t do things that would get them injured (like climbing the broken tower, something they took great delight in daring each other to do).

Her thoughts must have shown on her face because Ellaria let out a slight tut and pulled her into a hug.

“Winterfell will not fall to the ground if you take a day for yourself my sweet, you are still recovering from what those awful Lannisters put you through, and that is fine. One of the best thigs we can do for you is try to override the fear they make you feel by giving you good memories to look on.”

Her words did make sense and Sansa eventually nodded, perhaps a day in the glass gardens with friends was exactly what she needed.

* * *

Ellaria had been right, after a day in the gardens with her ladies, a day leaving the caring of Rickon to Osha and the preventing of Arya’s more extreme ideas to Brienne, she felt much more relaxed.

Her moon blood still caused her some distress, but nowhere near the terror it had caused her the previous day. She felt like she could actually concentrate without flashes of the scared child she had been in Kings Landing poking through.

It likely also helped that they had received news of Stark banners being spotted on the Kings Road to the north of Winterfell, a sign that her family was coming back from the Wall, and hopefully with good news.

When the horns blew to signal the approach of riders she hurried to meet them, leaving her paperwork on her desk and only feeling the slightest twinge of guilt at leaving it unfinished. She could always come back to the latest report on the population of Wintertown after her greeting her family.

It was comforting to see the Stark banners riding into Winterfell, it felt right and for a moment Sansa could almost pretend that it was not her uncle and brother, but her father and Robb returning home.

It was bittersweet to dwell on thought like that, so she quickly turned her mind away and instead focused on the people who were actually there.

It was strange though; her uncle did not appear to be alone on his horse. There was someone ahead of him, someone small with hair as red as her own.

Sansa’s heart leapt into her throat as she realised who exactly her uncle had brought back from the Wall, as she realised that finally all her family were home.

Arya let out a gasp beside her, as she too realised who else had come home, a realisation that was confirmed when two direwolves came bounding into Winterfell instead of just the one that had left.

“Your Grace.” Brynden bowed his head to her, his words and actions at odd with the smile on his face and boy in his arms.

“Ser Brynden, welcome home. And welcome home to Prince Bran, from your journey Beyond the Wall.” Sansa replied, as protocol dictated despite wishing nothing more than to wrap both in a hug.

The two moved on to greet Arya and Rickon and Sansa was suddenly face to face with a very pale Jon. His skin was almost translucent, the veins beneath visible, and his curls were uneven as though someone had hacked at them.

She greeted him formally as well, but could not disguise the concern in her eyes as she looked at him. Something had happened to her brother and she was going to find out what.

* * *

Bran had been deposited in Sansa’s room, the room they all usually ended up congregating in, with Rickon and Arya to keep him company and to ensure he rested while Sansa and Jon attended a council meeting.

The news that Brynden passed on was horrifying, his descriptions of the Others and the wights filled Sansa with fear. But worst of all was his recounting of why Jon looked so unwell.

Her brother had died. Had died because of her mercy.

Sansa clung to him, uncaring of the lack of decorum it showed, aware that it would only be someone cruel who would scorn her for ding so after receiving such news. Jon’s skin was as cold as the snow it looked like, and for a moment Sansa was reminded horrifyingly of Lady Stoneheart.

But then Jon smiled at her and squeezed her hand gently and the comparison was destroyed.

“If the force you saw was only a scouting party then we do not have long.” Lord Glover said, his face green with fear.

“We will need allies if we are to defeat them, our armies are not great enough to hold the whole of the Wall.” Garlan spoke up, his face and tone unusually solemn.

Bickering broke out at his words, and accusations of treason, of inviting southerners into the heart of their people, of back stabbers. It was chaos.

Sansa ended up doing something rather unladylike and banging her hands on the table to gain their attention. It worked though, the noise echoed through the stone room and heads turned to faces her, some with sheepish expressions and others still flushed with anger.

“Now is not the time for infighting, my lords.” Sansa deliberately kept her voice placid, “We will arrange a parlay between ourselves and the other kings in Westeros, if they truly care for their people then they will aid our fight, or at the least agree to a ceasefire.”

“That is madness, Your Grace. Tywin Lannister will never agree to such a thing.” Lord Umber was the one to argue this time.

“If any one else has any suggestions I will be happy to hear them.”

Sansa stepped back and allowed the growing silence to fill the room, eventually her uncle sighed.

“I suppose that’s it then, we’re arranging a parlay with Tywin bloody Lannister.”

Sansa felt that the looks of disgust on the lords’ faces mirrored her own, it was an unpleasant idea to contemplate.

* * *

The ale and wine flowed freely in the celebration of Bran’s return to Winterfell, there had been no real desire among Sansa’s council to hold a celebration, not with the news Brynden and Jon had brought, but it was expected and would have provoked talk had they not held one.

She had split her time among her siblings, had spent time listening to Arya and Lyanna talk of the adventures they wanted to have, had played with Rickon, had gently teased Bran for how he looked at the Reed twins.

Sansa left Jon and Tormund in the corner of the hall, they kept forgetting that they had company around them and could hardly keep their hands off of each other. She still had no desire whatsoever to see her brother exchanging saliva with his partner.

She turned and spotted Theon hiding in the shadows, since his status had essentially reverted to what it had been when he was the ward of her father he had been invited to the celebration. The almost wistful glances he sent to Grey-Wind who had left his side for once, and joined his packmates in causing mischief with Rickon, clued her in to one of the reasons he was so melancholy.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

He startled at her words but slumped when he realised what she meant. When he realised who she meant.

“Aye, and I betrayed him. I don’t deserve your kindness Your Grace.” Theon sounded so small, so sad as he said those words and Sansa just wanted to help him.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Your Grace’ when no one is around Theon, I’m still the little girl you once played monsters and maidens with for six hours straight. And no matter what you did, you are still my brother and I want you to be happy.”

Theon let out a little sob, like he could not quite believe what she had just said, “Thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa pulled his arm so it rested in the crook of her elbow and began to steer him around the room, keeping her grip gentle but firm. “Now come, Jon and his wildling are being entirely too sickening and I need support in the face of that.”

“Are you sure you don’t need support for other reasons?” A trace of the old Theon was in his smile and Sansa gently batted his arm.

“Yes, if you are on my arm then none of the ‘eligible lords’ can look at me with love sick eyes. Or at least, none of them will dare to approach me and ask me to dance.”

Once she had loved dances, but that was before they had been tainted by the dances in Kings Landing with the wandering hands and lewd insinuations of her partners there.

“I received a message you should know about,” She finally ventured, breaking the comfortable silence that had sprung between them, “From your sister. She is going to come to Winterfell to see you, she should be here within a fortnight.”

Sansa pretended not to notice the way Theon stiffened at the mention of his sister, instead she led him over to a table and poured him a glass of wine.

He gulped it down and looked at her with panic laden eyes, “Asha is coming here? She wants to see me?”

Sansa nodded in confirmation, “She wants to see you, and wants to discuss some business with me, although I don’t know what I could offer her.”

Theon swallowed the last of his wine and spoke in a voice so quiet that Sansa had to starin to hear him.

“Asha wants to be our father’s heir; she wants to be Queen of the Iron Islands.”

Well that would explain what Asha Greyjoy wanted from Sansa, she probably hoped for support against her uncles.

Sansa did not say anything about it though, she just kept wandering the hall with Theon, occasionally passing comment on someone’s choice in outfit, until she had remained long enough that she wouldn’t be insulting her guests if she left.

She had work to do in the morning after all.

* * *

_‘King Tommen of House Baratheon and Queen Margaery of House Tyrell, Lord and Lady of the Four Kingdoms, King and Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar, Protectors of the Realm, _

_Her Grace, Queen Sansa invites you to a parlay at Harrenhal in a month’s time, to discuss a danger facing the whole of Westeros. Attached is a report from the lord Commander of the Night’s Watch detailing the threat. _

_The Others are real, they have raised an army and are marching on the Wall at this moment, if they should cross it then the whole of Westeros will fall. I have seen them myself, they are as the stories said._

_If you should require proof of these claims then it shall be brought to the parlay. _

_Signed,_

_Ser Brynden Tully, Hand of the Queen.’_

_‘Margaery, _

_I speak the truth; the White Walkers are coming. Convince your husband to attend the parlay, for the sake of us all. _

_Sansa.’_


	14. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this chapter contains a description of Arya having a panic attack, if this might trigger you please stop reading after 'a way that was perfect for plotting' until the line break.

Arya refused to let Jon out of her sight after she heard what happened to him at the Wall. When she heard that he had died.

She could just about deal with him going to the privy, but she got twitchy if he took much longer than five minutes. Rickon was similar, although he fluctuated between clinging to Jon and ignoring him.

It was easier for her to follow Jon around than try and deal with Bran and Sansa. Bran had changed since she had last seen him, he knew things, things that scared her. He spoke of fire and ice and death, and when he admitted that he knew of Jon’s parentage, and that Uncle Benjen had as well, Jon’s face had fluctuated with various emotions until settling on hurt. Arya didn’t really like anyone who hurt Jon at the moment, not even Bran.

Sansa had been weirder, she kept looking at Jon with guilt, and when Arya asked why, her uncle Brynden had explained that Sansa felt responsible for Jon’s death as she had been the one to sentence Ramsay Snow to the Wall instead of executing him with his father. Arya thought that was stupid, but Sansa had not been listening to reason.

Lyanna had often joined her in trailing after Jon, although her friend was more interested in the stories Tormund would tell or the moves he would show them with a knife. But then Lyanna was almost desperate for adult approval, since her mother and sister had gone back to Bear Island for a while, to prepare it for the Winter and determine how many refugees they could take if it became necessary. As far as they knew the undead could not swim after all.

Arya was pretty sure that Lyanna had also been left at Winterfell to deepen the friendship between the two of them, she thought it was likely that Sansa would want Lyanna to travel to the Vale with her eventually. That she wanted Lyanna to be a member of Arya’s household in some capacity.

She and Lyanna had never voiced this to each other though, although Arya was sure Lyanna knew. Lyanna was smart like that, she was smart in a scary way, a way that was perfect for plotting.

Arya darted her eyes around the room, she suddenly could not see Jon and her heart began to pound in her chest. He must have left to room without saying anything, maybe trying to get some privacy, but she didn’t care. She needed him there in front of her.

What if he died again?

Her vision began to blur around the edges slightly and her breath was suddenly difficult to catch, it was like her chest was too tight and a roaring noise filled her ears. She stumbled over to a chair in to which she sat, curled up in a ball and trying desperately to contain the tears that wanted to escape.

She thought she could hear someone calling her name, but it was hard to hear anything past the dull roar, hard to hear anything past the thump of her heart.

Cold hands rested upon her knees, entering her direct line of sight. Hands with a scar she knew, one she had caused with a poorly thrown stone while being the villain in a game.

She slowly looked up, half scared that she was wrong, and met Jon’s worried grey eyes.

Barely a moment passed between her meeting Jon’s eyes and her flinging herself towards him. His arms flew up automatically to catch her and she clung to his neck with all her strength. Much to her mortification she began to cry, heaving great sobs against his neck and his hands rubbed soothingly along her back.

“Shh Arya, shh sweetling, I’m here.” He said softly and Arya burrowed her face into his neck until she could hear his heart beating. It was tangible proof that he was alive and there for real and she slowly felt herself begin to relax in his hold.

When her sobs had finally stopped he gently set her down and leaned back so her could look at her properly.

“What can I do to help you with this Arya?” Jon asked, looking so very sad, “You can’t stay by my side all the time.”

Arya sniffed loudly, “I don’t know. I just get so scared when I can’t see you, like you’re going to die as soon as you’re out of my sight.”

Jon pulled her so she was leaning against him and let out a light sigh.

“Would it make you feel better if Ghost followed me everywhere? He’s more than capable of keeping me safe.”

Arya thought about it, it was true that Ghost would protect Jon, better than Arya herself could. But she still wouldn’t be able to see that Jon was safe, she would have to rely on someone else again.

“Nymeria should follow you as well.” She declared, “She’ll like to be around Ghost and it should make me feel better.”

Jon smiled gently at her, “Then Nymeria will join me as well. Now, lets see if the kitchens have some hot milk and honey for you. A hot drink and some sugar will do you good.”

Arya let herself be pulled to her feet by her big brother, if Nymeria was going to be with him then maybe she would stop being so panicked when she couldn’t see him anywhere.”

After all, she could always look through Nymeria’s eyes to check up on him.

* * *

Arya wore a new gown to meet her betrothed, Sansa had given it to her early, it was one that was supposed to be a part of her name-day present. It was a very pretty gown, with skirts split for riding in a way that was difficult to spot, and embroidered with wolves and oak leaves and a few hidden falcon feathers.

She liked wearing it, had chosen to wear it, she was anxious about how the meeting would go. Tormund’s advice had calmed her somewhat, and she had his gift in Gendry’s arms all ready to go, as well as eyes on a puppy in the kennels to gift him when it was old enough to be taken from the litter.

She had even spoken to Sansa about what might be appropriate gifts for him, and, once her sister had stopped laughing, they had come up with a little list of things that would be suitable to court Robin Arryn, without making him feel emasculated.

She forced herself to smile as they rode in to Winterfell, and then forced herself not to wince at how poorly Robin rode. It was obvious that riding was not a skill that he had ever really been taught, from the awkward way he held the reins to the discomfort on his face at every step the horse took.

At least that was something she could try and fix during his time at Winterfell.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sansa’s face take on a calculating look as she gazed upon their cousin, it was the sort of look that had her siblings wincing at the plot that was undoubtedly to come. The sort of look usually reserved for making Rickon take a bath, or trying to get Jon to deal with his emotions, or preventing Arya and Lyanna from putting dung in the shoes of anyone who insulted them.

For once Sansa ignored propriety and went to assist their cousin with dismounting his horse herself, a wide friendly smile on her face that made Arya want to run and hide. She tucked Robin’s arm into her own and led him over to Arya and Rickon, and from the looks of things chattered pleasantly with him all the while.

It took a single look at Baelish’s face to understand what Sansa’s plan was, Littlefinger looked like he had just stepped in week old cow dung, and Sansa’s smiled held a hint of smugness as Robin gazed at her with adoring eyes.

“Lord Robin, this is my sister, Princess Arya.” Sansa said, after introducing Robin to Rickon.

Arya inclined her head, technically she and Robin were about the same status wise, so he did not need to bow to her just as she did not need to curtsey to him.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess Arya.” Robin said as he took her hand and pressed a dry kiss to it in what was obviously a practiced move.

“And to meet you, Lord Robin.” Arya made a gesture to Gendry, “I have a gift for you, as it is so cold in the North.”

She took the coat and passed it to him, his face lit up as he felt how soft the fur was.

“It’s bear skin, I hunted the bear myself for this gift for you.” Arya said softly, suddenly shy.

His eyes filled with awe at her words, and no small amount of hero worship. It seemed Tormund was right about how Robin would react.

She wouldn’t have guessed how good his advice would actually be, not after the clusterfuck that was him trying to get Jon to realise he liked him.

* * *

Adults were stupid, Arya decided as her lesson was once again interrupted by Ser Jaime Lannister trying to gain Brienne’s attention.

He did it regularly, butting in with advice on her use of a short sword a needling Brienne in an attempt to make her notice him. And the two of them would look at each other with big, sad eyes when they thought the other wasn’t looking, like a scene out of the songs so sappy even Sansa hadn’t liked them.

Of course, that was only when Bran wasn’t watching her lessons with a wistful stare, for some reason Ser Jaime was intent on avoiding him.

Arya would have questioned it, but the answer would have likely reduced the amount of fun she got from pretending to call out to Bran around Ser Jaime and watching him flail, so she didn’t ask.

If Lyanna had joined her for a lesson then the two would stand to one side and pass comment on the mating dance that took place before them, they wanted to do something to make the pair of them see what was in front of their eyes. Even if neither thought that Ser Jaime was in any way shape or form good enough for Brienne. His one good point (other than the amusement he caused them) was the way he made Brienne’s eyes light up.

Because Arya and Lyanna were sane and rational people they had decided that they would need reinforcements if they were to ever get Brienne and Ser Jaime to actually admit their feelings for each other. Uncle Brynden and Sansa were out, they seemed to be operating at a constant level of stress while trying to deal with the news from the Far North and the South; Jon was also out, he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body and had laughed at them when they had suggested it; Bran was out for obvious reasons, they could hardly get two people together when one was always running away from one’s co conspirator after all. That left Rickon, her chaotic whirlwind of a brother, who was always up for causing mischief and trouble.

It had required no bribing at all to get him to help them, merely the promise that is Ser Jaime ever hurt Brienne they would let Rickon and Shaggydog have the first go at him. Which is something they would have done anyway, Rickon was vicious.

They had gathered in the family solar to discuss their plans, neither Brienne nor Ser Jaime ever went anywhere near the family wing so there was no chance of being discovered.

Their plan wasn’t the most sophisticated but Arya had high hopes for it working. As a bonus it only required an adult’s help with one part, and it was a help the Osha could provide meaning they wouldn’t have to worry about trying to convince someone else to help them.

It was an unspoken rule in Winterfell that Osha could usually be found caring for Rickon and either discouraging or encouraging his mischief depending on her mood.

Arya would have gone so far as to say the plan was fool proof, that was if she didn’t know so many fools who would somehow manage to muck up her plans.

She had checked that Lyanna and Rickon were in position before her lesson, to satisfy her need for perfection. They would make their move once Ser Jaime inevitably turned up to interrupt her lesson with some piece of advice or attempt to needle Brienne. But that wouldn’t be for some minutes so Arya let herself sink into practising the movements as Brienne directed, flowing from one to another with a grace she hoped Syrio would have approved of.

She was jolted out of her movements when Ser Jaime arrived, this time he had not even bothered with the excuse of offering her advice, he just moved straight into trying to get a rise from Brienne.

A hint of movement out of the corner of her eye reassured her that things were going as planned, and as they had discussed Rickon and his pack of children and wolves suddenly rushed through the training yards, disrupting absolutely everyone and aiming directly for Ser Jaime.

Lyanna had spent an hour that morning adding extra water to the patch of ground where Ser Jaime normally stood, making the mud extra slippery. And slippery it was.

When he tried to scramble out of Rickon’s way he slid in the mud, his missing hand meaning he couldn’t hold onto the fencing around the practice ring, and he slid straight into Brienne’s arms in a parody of a lover’s embrace.

“Oh, just kiss already.” Osha called out from where she was hidden in the crowd, a sentiment that was obviously shared by a number of the regulars to the training grounds. Everyone was sick of the pining between the pair of them.

The two looked at each other for a long moment before Ser Jaime huffed out something Arya suspected to be a curse, and leaned up and placed a gentle kiss on Brienne’s stunned face.

Arya quickly looked away, she had no desire to see evidence of their love, even if she was happy for them.

It was with some satisfaction that Arya noticed that their plan had also succeeded in coating on f the lords from the Vale in a healthy coating of muck and mud, enough that his blond hair did not shine through. It served this lord right, for although Arya did not now his name, she had seen how he had paid compliment to her sister, made overtures of attempting to begin a courting at her, and then turned around and eyed the maids.

Maybe she could ask Robin to order his lords to stop trying their luck with Sansa, she was sure that he would do it for her. Especially after she had shown him how to hold a sword properly just that morning.

She turned away from the mud coated lord and nearly vomited. Ser Jaime held Brienne’s hand clasped between his own and was looking at her with a sickening tenderness.

Arya had not thought this part of her plan through. Now instead of watching them pine during her lessons, she would have to witness them being affectionate.

It was almost enough to inspire regret.

* * *

It was her name-day less than a week after the delegation from the Vale arrived, but Arya did not want a large celebration. She had seen the stress on Sansa’s face at the last feats held and knew that her sister was worried about the supplies they had for winter. She would not increase that stress by demanding a large celebration, not when what she really wanted was her family around her.

She had asked for a private celebration and in family solar, and her sister and uncle had already arranged it so that the majority of the visiting lords were out on a three-day hunt to ‘introduce them to the natural beauty of the North’, but in actual fact to provide them with some privacy for a few days. Arya was impressed by how well the scheme had worked, although she was sure some had gone in the hopes of being able to impress Sansa, there were an unusually high number of young lords who had travelled from the Vale with Robin’s company, each one obviously trying their hand at wooing her sister.

The kitchens had been asked to make her favourite foods for their meal, and she had been amazed to see the delicate raspberry tarts she loved. She had not thought there would be any raspberries available, they were a summer fruit that did not last, and when questioned Sansa admitted that Robin had brought some preserved in syrup from the Vale, as a gift for her at Sansa’s advice.

It was not the only gift he had brought her; he had also gifted her with a delicate shawl made to look like the wings of a bird that was so soft she wished to bury her face in it.

Sansa had gifted her with the dresses she had asked for, each on pretty without being overly feminine, and each with cleverly disguised split skirts and a myriad of pockets. They were all that she had hoped for and more, and the hug she gave Sansa in thanks was long and tight.

She could tell what her brothers had gifted her with by the shape of the package, it was a dagger, but an ornate one. One carved with a pommel to look like Nymeria, and with a blade etched with running wolves. Its point was wickedly sharp and Arya took great delight in the gleaming brightness of the blade. Her brothers (really Jon) were definitely in the running for the best name-day gift.

Also in the running was the one from her Uncle Edmure, he had sent Arya a book and a letter explaining the story behind the book. It had been a gift to her mother when she turned one and ten from _her_ mother, and mother had gifted it to Uncle Edmure when he turned one and ten, and now he was passing it on. When she flicked through the book, she saw it wasn’t songs but tales of the Riverlands, legends of the River Kings from before the Targaryen invasion. Uncle Brynden’s eyes had gone watery when he saw the book, and he had promised to read her a story from it later that evening.

A number of the lords had also sent gifts, those who were trying to curry favour with their queen and the rest of the ruling family, but they were all impersonal, and Arya did not particularly care for any of them overmuch. She could see Sansa noting down who had gifted her what though, and she knew she would soon be called on to sign delicately written notes of thanks to send to the lords.

She ties the bear claw necklace from Lyanna around her neck and bit into one of the tarts, enjoying a flavour she had not had since before the arrest of father. For a moment, surrounded as she was by her family, it was like they had never left Winterfell at all. But for once that feeling didn’t make her sad, it almost felt like healing.

And then Rickon and Bran pulled her into a joke and she forgot all melancholy thoughts, it was her name day and she would celebrate it.


	15. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again a little warning: the beginning of this chapter is Jon dealing with his death, and a lot of his thoughts are similar to depressive ones, if this will trigger you please just skip to the line break and the regularly scheduled dose of fluff.

Jon was so cold. He couldn’t get warm, no matter how many furs he was wrapped in, no matter how long he spent by the fire, the cold would not leave him. The only time he felt even a hint of warmth was when someone’s skin was pressed against his own.

His siblings had all turned even clingier than before, Arya had only let him out of her sight when he had agreed to let Nymeria follow him around, and Rickon alternated between clinging to his tunics and pretending he didn’t exist. Neither of those were as exhausting as the guilt in Sansa’s eyes whenever she looked at him though.

The elder of his two sisters seemed to believe that it was in some way her fault that he had been killed, that her mercy had led to his death, and she wouldn’t listen when he told her it was not her fault. He simultaneously wanted to hug and strangle her for that, wanted to make her realise that she was not to blame for showing kindness.

He didn’t though. Just as he didn’t confront Bran whenever he spoke without thinking and insulted him. He was too tired and cold to.

Tormund was the only one who had really noticed how cold he was all the time. He made sure to place a hand on Jon whenever they were together, pulled him against his body when he could, and had even moved up into the castle so that Jon would constantly have support when he needed it.

He had found it difficult to feel emotions a lot of the time as well. He only really felt anything in the presence of his siblings, the direwolves, and Tormund. And then those emotions were so strong, so intense, they shocked him.

He mistrusted everyone around him that was not family, had had to stop himself growling at a lord who tried to flirt with Sansa. He could just about deal with Robin Arryn, and only because he already seemed to be wrapped around Arya’s fingers, if the near worshipful looks he sent her were any indication.

Strong arms wrapped around him and he melted into the hold, feeling safe and protected.

And finally feeling warm.

“There’s no shame in asking for help, Pretty Crow.” Tormund said gently, “No shame at all.”

Jon did not say anything, the words would not come and he just didn’t have the energy to search for them. He burrowed into Tormund’s chest instead, and looked for the sound of his heart beat, using the steady rhythm to lull himself into a sense of calm.

“You can stay here as long as you need.” Tormund cupped a hand around the back of Jon’s head, his fingers tangling gently in his hair, “I have you. The world won’t end because you took some time to try and heal.”

* * *

Reuniting with Ygritte had been… awkward. That was until she broke the stare and flung her arm around his neck in a cross between a hug and a headlock.

“Seems like you have a thing for gingers Jon Snow.” She crowed, “And judging by yer very pretty sister I guess it must run in the family.”

He wriggled in an attempt to get out of her hold but she merely tightened it and ruffled a hand through his hair.

“Get off Ygritte.” He said, “Haven’t you got a woman to woo?”

Her hand stilled and her voice went uncharacteristically quiet. “What have you heard about my woman, Jon Snow?”

Jon took advantage of her distraction to break free, he momentarily mourned the loss of warmth but covered it up by affecting a high, girlish tone and wrapping a curl around his finger.

“Is Ygritte not with you? When is she coming down? She isn’t staying at the Wall, is she? Oh and I suppose its good to see the rest of you.”

Ygritte burst out laughing and Jon grinned.

“Osha might just kill you for that impression, Jon Snow.” Ygritte said through her laughter.

Jon just flapped a carless hand. “No she won’t. Rickon will protect me.”

“Yer relying on yer baby brother to protect you.” Ygritte sounded highly judgemental, but then, she had never seen Rickon in a mood.

“I challenge you to go against Rickon’s wishes.” Jon scoffed.

He was saved from whatever response Ygritte would have given him by her eyes widening as she glanced over his shoulder.

“Osha?” She breathed, and took a step forward.

Jon stepped to the side to allow her to move. Time almost seemed to slow as the two Free Folk women ran to each other across the courtyard of Winterfell.

They collided with a force that had Jon almost wincing, and then turning away quickly to give them an illusion of privacy as their faces mashed together. He may no longer be _in_ love with Ygritte but that did not mean he did not still love her, and he had no particular desire to see her -lover? partner? wife?- express just how much they had missed each other.

He turned in time to catch Rickon who was intent on barrelling towards Osha, undoubtedly to take refuge with her from the latest person he had managed to upset with his antic.

“No you don’t sweetling, you don’t want to be disturbing Osha just now.” He scooped Rickon up in his arms, noting the scent of garlic that stuck to his brother, “Why don’t you and I go and change you into something less garlicy smelling and do some sword practice?”

Rickon’s cheers were deafening, but when Jon glanced behind him, they had done little to deter Osha and Ygritte’s reunion.

* * *

“Tommen Baratheon and Aegon Targaryen have accepted out invitation to parlay.” Sansa announced, “I will be travelling South to meet with them, as will Stannis Baratheon. Accompanying me to the parlay will be a representative from each of my kingdoms and allies.”

Jon had a sudden feeling he wasn’t going to like where this announcement was going. Or, more than he already did with the thought of his sister leaving Winterfell again.

“The parlay will be held in Harrenhal and I shall depart for White Harbour in two days. While I am absent I leave the throne in the capable hands of my brother, Prince Jon, and my uncle, Ser Brynden. Should treachery occur and I fail to return then the crown will pass to Prince Rickon under the regency of Prince Jon; and should such an event happen then I request that attention is paid to the war Beyond-the-Wall instead of any misguided attempts at justice.”

The lords grumbled at Sansa’s words but Jon was frozen. He had not expected Sansa to declare that, had not expected her to pass the regency to him.

“Your Grace, we cannot trust Tywin Lannister. It’ll be another Red Wedding.” One of the lords said, but Jon was not really paying attention.

He was still trying to wrap his head around Sansa’s declaration, her choice of him as regent if she should fall. He did hear and appreciate her response though.

“I am aware of that, Lord Baelish. Hence why I have declared the line of succession before so many.”

Her voice was particularly frost-bitten and Jon could see some of the younger lords from the Vale flinch.

“The forces will remain here; my sworn shield will be my guard as will the Riverlands’ armies. We will meet Lord Tully and the armies at Saltpans before moving on to Harrenhal. While I am gone preparations for the war against the dead will continue across the North.”

The lords had no choice but to accept her words, her command. Jon himself didn’t like it, but he knew why Sansa had to attend the parlay, it would be an offense if she didn’t attend in person and sent an envoy instead. Not when it was a parlay she had called and one of such importance.

There was light grumbling as they filed out of the room, Jon made a mental note of who grumbled the most, they would be worth watching lest their grumbles become true discontent. He waited until all the lords were gone and it was just family left before he made his move.

“Sansa.” Jon called out to her as she was about to leave the room.

She turned back to him and raised a single, elegant eyebrow.

“Yes Jon?”

“Why?” He found he could not articulate himself better, but it didn’t matter because Sansa seemed to know exactly what he was asking.

She moved to him and grasped his hand in her own, and as the warmth sank into his skin, she explained.

“I would trust no one else with Winterfell and the Northern Lords. I trust Uncle Brynden, but the North would riot if they thought a southerner had power over them. And can you imagine Arya trying to rule?”

A smile crossed both their faces at that mental image, Arya would likely cause some sort of diplomatic incident or burn Winterfell to the ground out of boredom if she was left to deal with paperwork and petitioners.

“Who is going to tell Arya, Bran and Rickon that you’re leaving?” Jon asked quietly, “None of them will be pleased with one of us leaving Winterfell again, let alone travelling south to treat with the Lannisters and Targaryens.”

“I’ll tell each of them individually, and try and explain why.” Sansa said, a shadow of doubt crossing her face, “They are going to hate me for this, aren’t they?”

Jon pulled her into a hug, “They could never hate you. They might sulk for a while, but they sulk over a number of things. Rickon will forget he’s mad at you as soon as you bring him dessert.”

His words made her huff a laugh into his shoulder and he took a moment more to bask in the warmth of another person before pulling away.

“You come back though.” He said seriously, “You come back home, safe and sound. Else I will be very displeased with you and you’ll make Arya cry.”

She nodded and curled back into a hug.

That was fine, he didn’t really feel like letting go either.

* * *

The weirwood would always be one of Jon’s favourite places. The peace beneath the trees, and gentle steam rising from the hot pools would forever be comforting.

It was his escape when things got to be too much, when he became overwhelmed by the attention and the people around him.

Sansa’s announcement and imminent departure meant that the attention and demands on him had increased and he had escaped as soon as he could get away with. Desperate for a moment or two to himself, a moment or two alone.

Or as alone as one could be when accompanied everywhere by two huge, overprotective direwolves.

He sat on the stone beneath the great Heart Tree, the same stone his father had always sat on, and studied the pattern of fallen leaves on the ground. There was something inherently soothing in trying to see patterns in the random fall of leaves, and he could feel his mind calm.

There was a soft crunch of leaves underfoot coming from the entrance to the godswood, but he paid it no mind. Many people prayed before the weirwood, but no one would disturb someone at prayer unless it was necessary.

And with Sansa and Brynden both in the caste, he doubted anyone would be for him for anything important enough to disturb him in the godswood.

“Pretty Crow, Jon.” Jon’s head shot up at that, Tormund never normally used his name, and he sounded strangely nervous.

Tormund knelt before him and grasped his hand in his own, “Jon, somehow I found myself desperately, deeply, in love with you. And I would like to spend the rest of my days by yer side, no matter how long those days might be. I’ve spoken to yer sister and yer uncle, and both have given their blessing, so all I need ask is this: Jon Stark, will you wed me?”

Jon’s heart pounded in his ears as Tormund’s words sunk in.

This man, this stubborn, beautiful, infuriating man, wanted to marry Jon? Wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, bound by the laws of gods and men?

There was only one answer to that.

He surged forwards and kissed Tormund with reckless desperation, trying to convey all his feelings for the man through the kiss.

Tormund grinned against his lips and when they finally pulled away, remaining close enough that their breath still mingled, he let out a bark of laughter.

“I take it that’s an agreement then, Pretty One.”

Jon leaned forwards and placed a light kiss against the corner of Tormund’s smile.

“Aye, it’s a yes. I’ll wed you Tormund Giantsbane, provided you accept my crazy family as well.”

Tormund pulled him back for another deep kiss, but before their lips met he whispered one last thing.

“Yer crazy family are half yer charm, Pretty Crow, they make you almost seem sane.”

Jon would have protested such words, but he found himself distracted by the slide of Tormund’s lips and the hands that trailed up and down his sides, with a warmth he could feel even below his layers of clothing.

He closed his eyes and sank into the kiss, savouring the moment before he would have to start to worry about such things as planning the wedding.

Maybe he could just get Sansa to do it, she had imagined her own often enough after all.


	16. Sansa

Sansa was packing the last few things in her trunk when Jon knocked on her door. She bade him enter absentmindedly, Arya might have teased her with the attention she was paying to the clothes she was taking South, but Sansa knew the power of clothes to convey a message. If she wanted to be seen as a powerful ruler in her own right then she needed to dress that way, especially if she wanted to make an impression on the notably showy Lannisters, Tyrells and Targaryens.

“Sansa?” He sounded nervous for some reason, nervous enough for Sansa to look up from the gowns laid out on her bed to turn and look at him.

Her eyes widened in shock at his ruffled appearance, the red marks on his neck, and the slightly sheepish look on his face.

“What is it Jon?”

He ran his hand over his head and looked at a spot above her head, “So I have a favour to ask you. Would, would you be willing to sew me a cloak?”

Sansa stared at him for a moment, unsure why he was asking her that when she knew his cloak was in good condition. And then it sunk in.

She let out a squeal and flung herself at him.

“Tormund asked you then! And you want me to make you a maiden’s cloak, oh Jon!”

He looked slightly taken aback by her enthusiasm.

“You knew… wait, maiden’s cloak?” He sounded almost offended by the last few words.

Sansa giggled, and stepped back, admiring the flush on the tips of his ears.

“Tormund was very concerned with doing this properly, he asked me because technically you need my permission to get married, seeing as you’re a prince and all.” Her tone went decidedly mischievous, “And of course you are the one with the maiden’s cloak, just look at your pretty, pretty curls.”

She tugged one gently and let it bounce back into place, ignoring the scowl on her brother’s face.

“I would be delighted to sew a cloak for you Jon.” She filled her voice with sincerity, “I’m so pleased for you, but you aren’t allowed to marry until I get back.”

He laughed and pulled her into another hug, “I wouldn’t dream of it. Now, is there anything I can do to help you pack?”

Sansa started to direct him to help her with folding the gowns she had chosen, wrapping them in linen along with rosemary twigs to keep them from smelling travel worn.

They worked in a comfortable silence, and soon Sansa’s trunk was shut and locked, ready to be loaded onto the baggage cart they were taking to White Harbour.

There was a sense of finality as she shut the lid, her journey suddenly felt far more real.

She was leaving Winterfell. She was travelling South again.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face, or maybe Jon was feeling the same way, because his arms folded around her.

“You are stronger than you think Sansa, you show the Lannisters that they did not manage to declaw you. And then you come home and you stress over the flowers you wanted for my wedding being the wrong shade of blue.”

That did make her feel better, she leaned back and shot him a fake glare.

“I’m not going to choose blue roses for your wedding, that’s just gauche, you’ll have white flowers, with red ribbons, to match Ghost.”

Jon pulled a face at that, but his words were sincere, “Thank you, for making it so I can marry him, for agreeing to make my cloak. Just, thank you.”

* * *

White Harbour was as Sansa remembered it from trips with her parents, loud and bustling, but smaller and cleaner than Kings Landing.

As she rode into the city she was hit by a wall of cheers, she had been met outside the city by an honour guard from Lord Manderly and given the opportunity to freshen up before entering the city.

She sat astride her horse, her crown upon her head and wearing a heavy velvet dress, embroidered with wolves, falcons and trout. Lady and Grey-Wind trotted at her side and she once more had the cloak that had been Robb’s around her shoulders.

Her back was straight, her head held high, her lips curved into a gentle smile as she waved to her subjects.

They cheered and waved and threw flowers in her path, Sansa made sure to wave at each child, and when a bloom landed in her outstretched palm she lifted it to sniff delicately, prompting further cheers.

The progress through the city was slow, the crowds so large that the space they had on the streets was not big enough for more than two riders to ride side by side. Every so often Sansa would throw silver stags into the crowd, she had learned from the bread riots in Kings Landing just how quickly a crowd could turn and she would do her best to prevent it.

When they finally rode into the Mermaid’s Court she caught a glimpse of Stannis Baratheon’s face. He looked stunned by the reception she had received, but then, she supposed he had only ever seen the sternness of the North, the chill they presented to those who tried to claim their loyalty when it had been promised to another. He had never seen them celebrate, had never seen them around a Stark.

“Lord Manderly,” Sansa bade the portly lord stand, “Thank you for your gracious hospitality. I promise, we shall be out of your hair soon enough.”

The lord chuckled, “It is my honour, Queen Sansa. It has been too long since your family has experienced the hospitality of the Mermaid’s Court and White Harbour. We have put on a celebration for you this evening, before you depart in the morning.”

Sansa smiled and allowed her hand to be tucked into the crook of Lord Manderly’s arm as she was led inside the castle, “You are too kind, my lord.”

* * *

The Mermaid’s Court was the most Southern in style of all the castles of the North, its graceful archways and mosaics quite different to the sensible stone of most Northern castles.

Sansa could remember loving it as a child, and while she could still appreciate its beauty, she found herself uncomfortable in a place built for beauty and not war. It reminded her too much of the Red Keep.

Lord Manderly was as good as his word, he had put on a great celebration in his halls for Sansa’s arrival, one that showcased his wealth and emphasised his position as lord of the biggest trading port in the North.

Wine flowed freely, Dornish reds and Arbour Gold alongside a delicate floral blend from the Free Cities. The food was richer than normally found in a Northman’s halls, spiced and presented elaborately in a way that reminded Sansa even more of Kings Landing.

What was different though was the singers, they sang no songs of lions, stags or dragons, instead they sang purely those songs affiliated with House Stark. ‘Bael the Bard’, ‘Wolf in the Night’, ‘The Pack Lives On’, and another, even newer one, one that Sansa blushed to hear, one called ‘The Red Wolf’. A song that spoke of the mercy offered by a wolf, the kindness she showed and the allies she charmed.

She could hear Arya’s words in the song, could guess that this was the result of a discussion they had had so many weeks before, of how to promote Sansa as a kind and just ruler. She made a note to do something nice for her sister when she returned, perhaps give her the legitimate title of her Master of Whispers instead of the unofficial one she currently held.

Sansa had been asked to dance so many times and had graciously accepted each one, she trusted that her title would prevent the wandering hands that she had been subjected to in Kings Landing, and she was right. The only person who dared to put their hands anywhere other than her shoulder blades was Tyene, who placed them on her waist with a savage grin at the scandalised looks set her way by the other lords.

No one would dare confront her though, not Lady Tyene who was known to have Sansa’s favour, favour enough that she had been granted the Twins for her own. All they could do was look at her with scandalised eyes.

Sansa was pleased to have Tyene there with her, it was the first time she had been away from her family since Uncle Brynden had rescued her from the Lannisters and having someone there she knew would do all in her power to protect her was comforting.

She suspected there was another reason behind Lord Manderly’s hospitality, one in the form of his two granddaughters. His two unmarried granddaughters.

The two girls had been attentive to Sansa all evening and had often turned the conversation onto Jon. It wasn’t hard to work out that they were angling for a betrothal with someone they had refused to speak with just moons before purely because he now had a castle and the name Stark. Sansa was not surprised though, from what her father had said the Manderlys had been trying to marry into the Starks for generations.

Sansa really should do the kind thing and inform them that Jon was already betrothed, but as it was not due to be announced until she returned, she could not, not without seeming to favour the Manderlys above her other bannermen.

“Queen Sansa, you look radiant.” Ser Davos took her hand and gently led her into another dance. “The people seem to love you, whoever taught you to rule did a splendid job.”

Sansa smiled, she liked the knight, he had a manner that reminded her of her father and he was very good with Rickon and Arya.

“Thank you, for your kind words. But you would be shocked by who taught me to rule, I learned from Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon.”

Ser Davos did look shocked so she continued her explanation.

“Whenever I come across a problem, I think of what they might do. And then I do the opposite.” Her smile turned wicked, “It has served me well thus far.”

He let out a bark of laughter at that, and squeezed her hand gently.

“That it has for you, Your Grace. Although I should like to see Cersei Lannister’s face if you told her so.”

Sansa let a surprisingly vicious smirk come to her lips.

“As would I, Ser Davos, as would I.”

* * *

Their journey passed in a haze of sickness, Sansa was barely aware of the time passing as she moved between her bed and the turns about the deck that Tyene coaxed her into. She could barely keep down the sips of water and broth that Tyene pressed to her lips, her nausea was so great that she spent most of her time with her head bent over a bucket.

Those few times when she wasn’t so unwell, when she was up on deck in the fresh air, she was astounded by the beauty of the sea, of the shores that they passed.

She never got to enjoy the sights long though for another bout of nausea would sneak up on her and she would soon be emptying the contents of her stomach into the water.

Logically she knew the trip should take a week, but she had no sense of time, no sense of how long she had before this torment was over.

A damp cloth was run over her face after she finished emptying her stomach once more and in a brief moment of clarity she realised something horrible.

She would have to go through all this again for the return journey.

* * *

It was sweet to see Uncle Edmure again, she had missed the way he always seemed to know what to say when she was upset, had missed the way he gave hugs just like mother had done. It was almost as sweet as being on dry land was.

“How was your journey, sweetling?” He asked, wrapping her in his arms.

Sansa desperately wanted to reply honestly but they were in public so she would have to sanitise her response. From the sympathy in his eyes he knew already anyway.

“It was a long trip, uncle, but the seas were calm.”

He stepped back and looked at her with a smile, “Then the gods smiled upon you, dear one. We made the preparations you asked for at Harrenhal, what was it you wanted to show us before we arrive?”

Sansa debated on showing him there, showing him the wight in the crate that had travelled down from the Wall, but it would likely cause a panic that she had no desire to deal with.

“Unfortunately, now is not the place, you and the other lords attending the parlay shall have the chance to look on it this evening.”

Edmure nodded slightly and held out an arm for her to take, “Of course, sweetling. Now tell me how are your siblings? Have they turned the last of Uncle Brynden’s hair grey yet?”

Sansa let him lead her away from the docks as she thought of how best to answer.

“Well Rickon has formed his own little pack that run around Winterfell and Wintertown causing havoc whenever he can escape from his lessons. Arya has made friends with Lyanna Mormont and we all regret that, they spend their time training and annoying the Kingslayer in about equal measure. Bran seems to spend most of his time revealing unfortunate truths about people and mooning over the Reed siblings, although no one is sure which one he likes.” She shot a sly smile at Edmure, “Despite all that Uncle Brynden claims that the reason the last of his hair has gone grey is because you’ve spawned.”

Edmure let out a mock offended growl, “How very dare he? I’ll have you know I am an excellent father to little Robb.”

Sansa started to laugh, and she patted at his arm soothingly.

“I’m sure you are uncle.” Her voice turned serious, “If your parenting is anything like your abilities as an uncle then Little Robb will grow up with one of the best fathers in Westeros.”

Edmure’s eyes were suspiciously wet as he looked at her. He said nothing but Sansa understood all the same what he wanted to say.

She too wished her mother had been here to see it.

* * *

The great hall of Harrenhal had been set up as Sansa had requested, there were four daises, each one hung with the appropriate banners and with chairs set out. Each one equal so that no one would be offended.

Her retinue was the first to arrive, as Sansa had known they would be, and she quite happily settled into her chair to watch the other kings of Westeros arrive.

Stannis Baratheon was the first, this too Sansa had expected, for he had been camped fairly nearby to Sansa. He did not have many men with him, content merely with Ser Davos and Lady Melisandre as his advisors for the parlay. His wife and daughter had been moved into Winterfell from where they had been staying at the Wall and Sansa and Jon had found themselves hoping that Arya would befriend Shireen Baratheon, not only because it would be a good alliance to have in future but because they hoped the quiet girl might act as a dampener on some of Arya and Lyanna’s more adventurous pursuits.

He and Sansa merely nodded at each other, they had no more need for diplomacy, their alliance was already laid out.

The next King to arrive and take his place was Aegon Targaryen, along with a man with hair nearly the same shade as Sansa’s own.

“The man with him is Jon Connington, a friend of Rhaegar’s.” Edmure whispered in her ear and Sansa gave the slightest nod in acknowledgment.

She studied the Targaryen, from the foreign cut of his tunics and doublet, to the blade hung on his hip. He did look like a prince from a story, except for his hair. If there was one thing Sansa had not expected from Aegon Targaryen, it was his hair colour.

Instead of the pale blond that usually adorned the heads of Targaryens it was a deep and brilliant blue, the same shade as the blue on the Tully banners. He smiled at her when he noticed her looking at him, a wide, sincere smile, that looked so very much like Jon’s.

Their eyes crinkled at the corners in the same way, and there was a similar quirk to their lips.

There were differences to of course, ones that reminded her of Oberyn and Tyene, but then, his mother was also a Martell.

A part of Sansa’s mind began to turn over the idea of forming an alliance of some sort with him once the War against the Others was done. If they could all come to an agreement against the Lannisters then hopefully the war would be far quicker and easier.

He would probably only accept a marriage to bind an alliance though, something that Sansa was not opposed to on principle, but would likely be a political nightmare to navigate.

She watched as Oberyn sauntered over to the Targaryen delegation and introduced himself, no sign of the nervousness he felt in his demeanour. She knew he had felt guilt over not being there for his nephew and that he hoped to rectify it, it was one of the reasons why she was considering an alliance with Targaryen.

Sansa looked away as they started to speak, not wanting to intrude on the family reunion. She was pleased for them; it was always sweet to discover family you had thought lost were alive.

Horns sounded from outside, an ostentatious sound that could only belong to one family. Oberyn moved back to join her, they would present a united front, a show of strength.

They paraded in, a show of gold brocade and red silk, and Sansa looked from face to face with a neutral expression, she would not show how the colours made her heart und in fear. Would not show the pain she felt in her back at the sight of the white cloaks of the Kingsguard.

Her eyes were drawn to Margaery, to her elegant form draped in a cream and gold dress, a drew that when Sansa tilted her head seemed to have the outline of weirwood leaves among the embroidered flowers and leaves.

She should have looked comical, walking arm in arm with a boy of eight, yet she looked as regal as ever. Margaery sent Sansa a small smile, and she felt her heart beat even faster in her chest, although for a different reason.

A gentle elbow to her side had her tearing her gaze away from Margaery and up to meet the gently laughing eyes of her uncle.

“You can moon over the sweet Tyrell later, dear one.” He murmured, and Sansa had to force down a flush.

Sansa’s eyes skipped over Tommen, she knew he had no real power, that he was a puppet for his grandfather. When her eyes met Tywin Lannister’s she had to resist a shudder, his eyes were cold and hard and calculating. He was the one they would have to convince, but at least he could be reasoned with, unlike his daughter or dead grandson.

At the very least she could rely on his selfishness, for his family could not rule anything if there were no people left to rule over.

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly as he looked at her and Sansa felt like baring her teeth in a smile at the shock she could see there.

She knew she looked different to the last time the Lannisters had seen her, no longer was she wearing ill fitting gowns in shades belonging to no House, now she was dressed in a gown made specially for this meeting, one that showed the powers of her kingdom. Her skirts were thick with embroidery and embellishment showing wolves, trout and falcons playing together, her bodice made to look like a weirwood in a snow storm. It was a gown that had taken her sewing circle two weeks to make, but from the looks on the Lannisters’ faces, it had been two weeks well spent.

She was no longer their little dove, and they would not leave this hall without understanding that.

There was silence in the hall, the lords and kings just looking at each other with barely disguised hostility.

“I rather think we should get introductions under way before we start any business,” A man with pale ginger hair said, he gestured to a youth with blue hair, “May I present King Aegon VI Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

Ser Davos let out a snort, “And let me present King Stannis of House Baratheon, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.”

Stannis shifted in his seat smugly as his titles were announced by the man Sansa knew to be his closest friend. She watched as Tywin Lannister’s mouth pinched slightly and he stepped forwards, so he was just in front of Tommen.

“And I am presenting King Tommen of Houses Baratheon and Lannister, the true Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm.” His voice was filled with barely concealed rage.

Sansa nodded to her uncle, they had agreed that he would have the honour of announcing her and she trusted him to put whatever twist upon it he wished, she knew he was as eager to cause offense to Tywin Lannister as she was.

“My lords,” Edmure said, grinning widely, “I have the great honour to present the Queen we chose, Queen Sansa of House Stark, Queen of the North, Queen of the Riverlands, Queen of the Vale, Queen of the First Men and the Andals, Protector of the Realm, The Queen of Winter.”

She did not much like to hear her full titles read out, she would always recall the words Lord Tywin had said to Joffrey, that a king who must announce he is so is no king at all, but she made an exception this once, if only to enjoy the way that Lannister looked like he had bitten into a rotten fruit upon hearing them.

“Well isn’t this lovely!” Someday Sansa would really like to know what madness ran through Oberyn’s head, because only he could say those words with complete sincerity.

The expression on Tywin Lannister’s face evolved from biting into a lemon to smelling manure, while Aegon Targaryen and his advisors looked like they were trying to contain their laughter.

“Why did you call us here, Queen Sansa?” Tommen asked, ignoring the glare of his grandfather.

Sansa gestured to Lord Umber to bring forwards the crate that contained the pieces of the wights that had fallen at the attack on the Wall.

The Greatjon tipped out the crate with a savage grin as the torsos and heads writhed and snapped on the stone floor. Screams and yelps could be heard from all the parties except Sansa’s own, they had all viewed the wights beforehand so as to present a stoic, united front.

“This is a wight.” She said, in her best lecturing tone, “Or to be more accurate, parts of a number of wights. This is what remains of a force that attacked Castle Black, a scouting party if you will. They cannot be killed with normal steel, as all it does is carve them into smaller, still animated pieces.”

All hint of joviality had left the faces of the lords and kings in attendance as they listened to her words and watched the writhing pile of body parts.

Val was the one to step forward next, she had been the one chosen to speak on behalf of the Free Folk.

“The dead are relentless, they will not stop coming, they will break down the doors beneath the Wall with nothing more than the crush of their bodies. Every man who falls fighting against them rises back as another member of their armies. They fall to fire, or those fancy swords some of you have. And dragonglass, some people have said dragonglass works as well, but its rarer than the fancy swords.”

Using her words as a cue the Greatjon demonstrated first that his sword did not have any effect on the wights, and then that burning the limb meant the ashes did not move.

“How many of these wights do you estimate there are?” Aegon Targaryen asked, “How long do we have?”

Sansa exchanged a look with Edmure and Val, “Its hard to say, the Others have a force made of all the dead with meat still on their bones above the Wall, its likely the largest army Westeros has ever seen. The last report we had, the army was mustering not ten leagues from Castle Black.”

Those faces which had regained colour at the destruction of some of the wights lost it once more. They were on borrowed time, that much everyone knew.

“We are not asking for a complete end to hostilities,” Edmure said, “Just for a ceasefire until the war against the Others is over, and for every kingdom to play their part. If we do not put our pride aside to face a threat that could destroy us all, then we do not deserve the people’s loyalty.”

A long silence filled the hall and thoughtful looks overtook the other kings and lords faces. They had given them all much to think about, but Sansa had hope that they would do the reasonable, right thing.

It was all she could now do.


	17. Brynden

Brynden pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. Without Sansa there his workload had drastically increased, the minutiae of everyday ruling that was normally split between two had all been left to him. Jon tried to help where he could, but the lad had little knowledge of food stocks and land disputes. Instead Brynden had set him to checking whether their forces, particularly the Southern forces, were equipped to fight in Winter.

The lad probably knew how to do that better than Brynden did, what with his experience at the Wall.

Brynden had other preparations to make as well, Lady Greyjoy was supposed to be arriving any day, and Bran, Rickon and Arya really needed tutors to go over the education they had missed and to prepare them for their roles. He had a letter to send to the citadel to ask for another Maester, and he probably should request a Septa for Arya as well.

Then again, Arya would hate a Septa, and she didn’t follow the Seven either, so a Septa’s spiritual guidance would be useless. Perhaps he would ask Oberyn when he returned what to do, the man had raised numerous unconventional daughters after all.

It was good he was busy though, else he would only be worrying about Sansa and Edmure, the gentlest of his nieces and nephews, and how they were facing both lions and dragons.

He had never been a particularly devout man, but now Brynden found himself praying in the little Sept that had been built for Cat almost every evening. He prayed for the safe return of his family, for this mad plan to actually work, for them all to survive the winter.

Perhaps though, there was something else he could do, something that would ensure the survival of some of the children in his care.

“What did you want to see me about?” Jon stuck his head around the door, “Your message sounded urgent.”

Brynden gestured for him to come in and sit down.

“It wasn’t supposed to be urgent; I think I just asked an over zealous person to pass it on. I need your opinion on something.”

Jon sat down opposite him, his cheeks still icy and pale despite the heat of the room. “Well that sounds ominous.”

“It shouldn’t be.” Brynden sighed, “Its about Arya and Rickon. I’m thinking of sending them away, sending them to the Vale.”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed a few times as he blinked in shock.

“Well I can see why you want a second opinion. Why do you want to send them away?”

“Should Sansa’s plan work there will soon be three armies not our own little more than a day’s ride from Winterfell, and while one of those is our ally one most certainly is not. And if her plan does not work then we will be fighting a war on two fronts, our forces divided with one f our enemies one who has no need for rest or supplies. Either way, Winterfell will not be as safe as it is now.”

There was no denying the truth of his words, their situation was more dire than many suspected. And Brynden had another reason for wanting to send them away, if they ended up in a drawn out war then supplies would quickly run low, the Vale at least still had relatively well stocked larders, if Rickon and Arya went there then they would not have to worry about empty bellies.

“Are you asking me because you don’t want to be the only one Arya blames?” Jon asked slowly.

His nephew was perceptive, Brynden would give him that. He nodded, feeling no shame in admitting it. His niece was scarier than half the people he had met on the battlefield when she wanted to be.

“I would laugh, but I completely understand.” Jon said, “Arya can be terrifying sometimes. Especially if Lyanna Mormont is involved.”

They shared a commiserating look. More often than not Arya’s mischief fell upon them to deal with, none of the lords or members of the household feeling comfortable bringing Arya’s exploits to her sister’s attention.

Not that Jon or Brynden would want Sansa to be forced to mother her siblings, they felt guilty enough about the work load on her from being queen, let alone adding parental responsibilities on top.

“It might be best if we broach the topic slowly, maybe start making noises about Robin’s return home, and how nice it would be for Arya to see her future home. If we’re subtle they might not notice.” Brynden said.

Jon nodded, “That might work, maybe start making suggestions about the people Arya would want to go with her? Or about ensuring the succession is secure?”

That might work, to appeal to the sense of honour Ned and Cat had instilled in all of their children.

“There is one problem though, if they go back to the Vale wont Littlefinger have to go with them? Do we really trust him around Arya and Rickon?” Jon asked, sounding worried.

“I would feel more comfortable with him around Arya than I do Sansa, Arya looks very little like her mother and is unafraid to defend herself if necessary. I’m afraid that if he remains here with Sansa, without us around, he might try and make a move on her that she cannot defend herself from.” Brynden tried to explain, feeling slightly mercenary as he did so.

Jon merely nodded, he too must have noticed the way abolish seemed to almost lust after Sansa, although whether it was the girl or the power she wielded he was more infatuated in Brynden did not know.

“They won’t want to go before Sansa gets back though.” Jon warned, “And I think Arya might commit a murder if she has to miss my wedding.”

Brynden smiled at that, “Aye, I think she would. She’s determined she will be the one to give you away. As is Rickon. I think if Rickon was any older the pair of them would fight a duel over it.”

Jon ducked his head, a faint flush staining his cheeks.

“Aye, I think so too.”

* * *

Lady Asha Greyjoy was almost exactly as Brynden had thought she would be based on the stories of her he had heard. She was no great beauty, but moved with a confidence that drew all eyes to her as she strode around in her leather breeches and jerkin, an axe at her side.

Brynden just knew that Arya was going to find a way to spend time with her, even if she had to sneak away from her training to do so.

“Lady Greyjoy.” He bowed his head to her, and she bowed hers in turn.

“Ser Brynden. Its been a while since last we met.”

Brynden tried to remember meeting her before, and then it struck him, he could remember a skinny girl stood beside her mother at the surrender of Balon Greyjoy after his ill-fated rebellion. A girl who watched on as her little brother was torn from her weeping mother’s arms with an angry expression.

“Queen Sansa sends her apologies for not being here to greet you in person, she is currently attending negotiations, negotiations I believe your father was also invited to?”

Lady Asha barked out a short laugh, “If Balon received such a missive I never heard about it. I’m here to see my brother. Take me to him.”

Brynden led her through Winterfell to the chamber that had been assigned to Theon, the lad had rarely left the chambers since Sansa, and by extension Grey-Wind, had left Winterfell. He had been the one to insist that Grey-Wind accompany Sansa, but he was not dealing well without the direwolf, without Robb’s direwolf by his side.

He pushed open the door, hoping it was one of Theon’s better days. And it did seem to be at first. And then the lad saw his sister standing in the doorway.

Theon’s eyes widened and his breath began to quicken as he looked upon his sister. His hands moved up to clutch at his hair and he slid down to the floor, he started to mutter and rock himself in what appeared to be a failed attempt at comfort.

Lady Asha just stood there, struck dumb by the appearance of her brother, and Brynden pushed past her to reach Theon.

He gently took hold of Theon’s hands, trying not to flinch at the feel of the missing fingers, and made Theon look into his eyes. He took in a few exaggerated breaths in a calm rhythm and spoke in his most soothing voice.

“Try and copy my breathing, there we go. In and out, and in and out.”

He waited until Theon’s breathing had calmed somewhat before asking his next question, “Do you know where you are? Who you are?”

Theon shook his head and Brynden smiled softly, to show he was not angry.

“Do you know who I am?” This time Theon nodded, “I want you to try and name all my nieces and nephews, don’t worry about titles or surnames. Take as long as you want, just focus on that instead of anything else.”

The lad’s eyes widened but his breathing remained calm and he gained a look of concentration.

“There’s R-robb, and Sansa, and Arya, and Bran, and Rickon and, and, Catelyn, and Edmure and…” he paused and his eyes darted around the room until they locked onto Lady Asha’s. he straightened slightly, as though taking strength from the presence of his sister. “And Lysa and Robin, and, and, Jon as well.”

Brynden smiled, “That’s very good Theon, well done. But I think you’re forgetting someone. You forgot to add your own name to that list, my niece helped raise you and her children claim you as a brother, you even have a direwolf that never normally leaves your side, I think that adds you to my ever-expanding list, don’t you?”

Theon’s eyes shot back to him, with wide eyed wonder. He gently squeezed Theon’s hands and pretended to not see the dampness that filled his eyes, there were moments when his fierce pride shone through, and Brynden would not cause him any additional distress.

He moved away when he thought Theon had calmed a little, to allow Lady Asha a chance to speak to her brother.

“You little idiot.” She pulled him hard against her chest, and despite her words her tone was filled with strong affection. “One day you’ll succeed in your quest to kill me with worry.”

Theon clutched at her jerkin with a vice like grip, strong enough that there was discolouration in his fingers.

“’m sorry.” He muttered into his sister’s neck.

She sighed and curled her hand around the back of his head, “Only you baby brother, only you.”

Brynden felt like he was intruding so left the room quietly, he would send someone up with food for them later in the day. They deserved to have a proper reunion.

* * *

Brynden decided he liked the Princess Shireen, she seemed to have a level head on her shoulders. She reminded him a little of Lysa, before her heart had been broken by loosing three babes, and before she had been forced to marry a man thrice her age.

Brynden would always love his brother, but he hated him for the way he had treated Lysa.

Princess Shireen though, she seemed to be made of sterner stuff. She would have to be with Stannis Baratheon and Selyse Florent as parents, neither were known for their good humour. Brynden was in slight awe of her ability to make Arya and Lyanna sit and pay attention to lessons.

He had gone looking for his niece and her friend when he had not received any notifications from household staff about their exploits, usually a quiet Arya was a dangerous Arya. If she was quiet it meant she was probably planning something extreme, egged on by Lyanna, and on occasion Rickon or Bran.

He had thus been shocked when he had found her and Lyanna in the library with Princess Shireen, the three of them reading and discussing a history, a book containing the histories of the North from before Torrhen Stark bent the knee.

Arya had looked up at him with an expression that was far too innocent, “Is something wrong uncle?”

She was using her little girl voice, the one she only used when she was being a little shit. Brynden resisted the urge to growl, for a moment he pitied his mother, Arya behaved much as he did when he was a child.

“I was just wondering where you were, I could only hear the sounds of Rickon’s destruction and was concerned something horrible might have happened to you.”

Princess Shireen covered her mouth with her hand in a polite attempt to hide her laughter. Lyanna had no such delicacy, she let out a full-bodied laugh and elbowed Arya.

“Your uncle is right, Stark. The whole North must think we are planning something wicked.”

Arya should have looked offended at those words, but instead she looked proud.

“Well then, we have trained them well. Besides its not like the fear that will flow through everyone when Rickon decides to sit still for a day. I bet on that day there will be mass paranoia.”

Brynden wanted to laugh at his niece’s words, but he really should be the one to set a good example.

“It looks as though I owe a debt to the lovely Princess Shireen for getting you to actually attend your own education, sweet niece.” He said, “It seems as though she is a good influence on you. Perhaps I shall arrange it so that you spend more time together.”

Arya looked like she wanted to be annoyed by his words, but the pleased smile she sent to Princess Shireen belied that.

“Do as you wish, uncle, but it will never stop Lyanna and I from testing Winterfell’s defences.” She said in a lofty, imperious tone.

Brynden had to suppress a smirk, she sounded almost exactly like Cat had as a girl, although he was sure Arya would not appreciate the comparison.

He was equally sure that Cat would not have been too impressed by that comparison.


	18. Arya

Arya did not like Sansa being away. Did not like the thought of her sister being in the South again, and worse than that, being in Harrenhal. She didn’t like the fear that filled her every time she thought about it. Did not like the nightmares of her sister never coming home.

She tried to keep herself busy so she didn’t have to think about it, she had thrown herself into her training, with the hope that if she improved enough she might be allowed to accompany her sister the next time she had to leave Winterfell.

She did what she could to be helpful as well, she had no head for ruling or the patience to deal with petitioners and lords, but she could head off some of Rickon’s more destructive ideas. She could also work on her unofficial role as Sansa’s Master of Whispers.

Whenever she snuck around Wintertown, in the clothes she had escaped Kings Landing to disguise her identity, the general opinion of her family was positive. From the Dornish to the Free Folk, near everyone seemed to be pleased with Sansa’s rule, but there were always some mutterings, some displeasure.

Arya took it upon herself to ensure those mutterings never spread, that they never became more than mutterings. She’d enlisted Lyanna to help her with writing songs to spread, ones supposed to inspire love and loyalty among the smallfolk for her family.

‘The Red Wolf’ had been a success, the unhappy whispers decreasing after the spread of the song, the song that Arya and Lyanna had specifically written to emphasise how different Sansa was to the Lannisters and Targaryens.

They were especially proud of how far it had spread, from one report they had received from their slowly growing network, their song was even being sung in Kings Landing.

Wars were fought on many fronts, and Arya was quite happy to lead the war of people’s opinions.

She and Lyanna were trying to come up with another song, one that reminded people of the power of the Starks, the Tullys, and the Arryns. They had ended up asking Shireen for help, Shireen had a better grasp of wordplay than they did, a result of her reading so often and so much, in return she had asked that they show her how to build a snowman.

Arya was horrified at the thought of someone having never seeing snow before and they would have agreed to even without the help with their songs.

She had started spending more time with both Lyanna and Shireen, and sometimes even Beth Cassel had joined them despite the two of them never getting on before Arya had left Winterfell. She supposed they had all changed a lot though and their disagreements from before seemed childish and petty.

And although she still spent time in the forge with Gendry, or running around with Rickon, or sitting with Bran, Arya found she quite liked having friends who were girls. It wasn’t something she had really experienced before but it was… nice.

* * *

Arya was really rather sick of her training being interrupted, especially when it was Ser Jaime Lannister’s fault. She supposed it wasn’t really his fault if two men were stupid enough to attack them in the centre of Winterfell, in the training yards, with numerous men around. But still.

She had engaged one of the men, one whose sword work was sloppy but who was bigger and stronger than her by a wide margin. She had to think quickly as his sword bore down on her with a strength that would likely have knocked Needle from her grip.

She ducked under his arm and thrust her sword up, its tip pierced his throat with a gurgle and the man dropped to the floor as blood started to flood his lungs.

Arya removed Needle and stepped out of the way of the blood spray, she turned around and was proud of the looks of amazement that graced the faces of some of the people in the training yard who had rushed over to try and help.

She turned away from them and to the man held by Brienne, his weapon lying of the floor some distance away.

“Who are you?” Arya pointed her blade at the scruffy man, “And what the fuck are you doing in Winterfell?”

“You see, Little Princess, I’m here ‘cause I’ve been paid to. ‘is lordships sister sent me to bring ‘im back to her.” The scruffy man said, gesturing to Ser Jaime.

Arya scowled, “You can’t have him. He’s ours.”

She could see Ser Jaime looked both slightly offended and touched by her declaration, while Brienne seemed to be holding back her laughter as Arya questioned the man next to the corpse of his colleague.

“Why did you come now?” Ser Jaime cut in, “I’ve been in custody of one Stark or another for over a year now, why exactly did my sweet sister wait this long?”

The man shrugged, “I don’ know, milord, I jus’ know that we were going to be paid the rest of our fee when we got back.”

Arya pressed her blade a little closer to the man’s throat. “Well it looks like you won’t be getting the rest of your fee, if you are lucky though you might receive a new set of all black clothes.”

She gestured for him to rise and thrust him towards the guards that had come at the sound of the commotion.

“Take him to the cells and inform my uncle and brother of his imprisonment. They will want to question him for themselves.” She ordered.

The guards took hold of the man and nodded to Arya.

“Yes, milady.” One said as they started to drag the man off to the cold cells below the keep.

Arya did not watch them go, she merely took out a cloth and began to clean her blade until the hubbub of the yard went back to normal and she could resume her training.

* * *

Arya was in love. Lady Greyjoy was amazing, she had no idea how exactly she was related to Theon, they couldn’t have been more different. She decided then and there that when she grew up, she wanted to be Asha Greyjoy.

She wanted the looks of fear and awe that Lady Asha gathered aimed at her, wanted the careless swagger and the lack of comments over her choice in attire.

Arya honestly did not understand how Lady Asha was related to Theon. Lady Asha was suave and had a dangerous air, whereas Arya could distinctly remember five different occasions where Theon had shrieked like a little girl over mud splattering his clothes.

She watched longingly as Lady Asha moved around the training yards, axes twirling around her hands in graceful arcs and twists. What she wouldn’t give to have the opportunity to learn that set of movements, to learn how to swing an axe with such grace.

A hand rested on her shoulder.

“No.”

Arya pouted and looked up at her brother.

“No matter how much you pout you aren’t going to ask Lady Asha to learn the finger dance. You’ll either manage to chop your own or someone else’s head off.” No-fun Jon, the good time ruiner said.

Either he had managed to pick up mystical mind reading powers when coming back from the dead or her thoughts showed on her face because her brother gained a slightly insulted face.

“But Joooooon.” She whined, trying to make her eyes look big and sorrowful. “What if I need it? What if the only weapon between me and certain death is an axe?”

Her brother looked like he was really trying to supress laughter. “And what is the chance of that happening?”

Arya crossed her arms and deepened her pout, “It might. You never know what might come. And then you will lament to yourself and regret not letting me learn the finger dance.”

She piled on the drama in her tone, piled on the theatrics, her aims having increased from just convincing Jon to let her learn a new skill to making him laugh in public. Jon always looked so worried and sad lately, and it was her duty as a little sister to make him have fun once in a while.

She watched his lips twitch and decided to up the drama, drawing on the theatrics she had witnessed while in Kings Landing. She threw a hand over her forehead and leaned against Jon, letting out a deep sigh.

“At my funeral they will tell the story of why my corpse was so maimed with axe marks, and will ask why I was unable to defend myself, and they will have to say that my cruel elder brother forbade me from learning a dance so named for its ability to maim its practitioners.”

The lip twitch developed into a loud snort and then into deep laughter that had Jon clutching at his sides. A laugh loud enough it had numerous people turning to see what was happening.

“Its still a no.” He managed to choke out through his laughter, “But if you manage to last a week without causing any incidents I will see if one of the Free Folk will be willing to teach you how to use an axe.”

Arya considered it; it was a better offer then she had thought she would get. She had honestly thought she would just receive an outright refusal.

She spat on her hand and stuck it out, “Deal.”

Jon shook her hand with a look of distaste, smirked, and tried to rub his spit covered hand on her face.

Arya ducked away, cursing, and wondered why exactly she had missed having her siblings around. They really were the Worst.

* * *

The puppies in the kennels were old enough for Arya to put the next part of her courting plan into play. She went down and selected a pup, one with a pure white coat and pale blue eyes, one in the colours of House Arryn. The pup was a boy, but one of the most sweet tempered of his litter mates.

She had asked Shireen to tie a large bow around the puppy’s neck using a wide pale blue satin ribbon, she was aware enough to realise that had she tried she was more likely to strangle the puppy than tie a pretty bow.

Arya carried the puppy to the solar that Robin had been assigned for his stay, his profile high enough to receive a suite of rooms instead of just a bedchamber.

“Lord Robin.” Arya nodded her head slightly in greeting.

“My lady.” Robin bowed ever so slightly as he moved to allow her into the rooms.

His rooms were almost stiflingly hot, a roaring fire burning in the grate as well as the hot pipes through the walls.

She turned to face him and held out the puppy, “Here, this is for you.”

Robin took the puppy with a look of awe on his face.

“For me? What’s his name?”

Arya determinedly did not look at his face.

“He doesn’t have a name yet. That’s for you to decide. I’ve also asked the kennel master to come and teach you how to care for the pup.”

Robin stroked the puppy’s soft floppy ears and continued to look between Arya and the pup with adoration.

“I think I will call him Mors*.” He announced. “And my thanks, my lady. I think this is one of the best gifts I have ever received.”

Arya smiled, “I’m glad you think so. When you feel comfortable with it we should do a supervised greet for him and Nymeria, let them get used to each other.”

Robin nodded eagerly and Arya was suddenly struck by how different he looked from the boy she had expected. She had heard much about a weak, sickly boy, one who had regular tantrums and was spoiled by his mother, yet while frail, Robin seemed to have blossomed in Winterfell, and he’d had no tantrums save one that Brynden had quickly put a stop to.

It probably helped that he looked at her like she had hung the moon and the stars in the sky.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Robin’s shy voice.

“I would like it if you were to call me Robin, my lady.” He said, all but hiding his face in Mors’ fur.

Arya reached out so that her hand brushed against his arm until he looked up at her.

“Then I am Arya.” She felt a warmth fill her chest at the bashful smile Robin sent her way. “I was thinking of visiting the forge this afternoon, would you care to accompany me?”

Robin agreed enthusiastically and Arya lowered her hand and stepped back.

“Then I shall see you at the midday meal Robin.”

She inclined her head and left the room. A grin made its way onto her face as she heard Robin fussing over the puppy behind her, her attempts at courting were going better than she had hoped.

* * *

“Death follows you like a cloud, little sister.”

Bran may have become some mystical being but he was still an annoying little shit.

“I’m older than you.”

Bran smirked, “But I’m taller than you. You, little sister, are short.”

She wanted to retaliate but it was then that the words that weren’t an insult registered.

“What do you mean I have death following me? Did Tormund give you some of the liquid in his flask again? I thought Uncle Brynden banned that after Jon got so drunk he thought he was Ghost and spent an hour howling at the moon.”

They both snickered at the memory of their brother embarrassing himself, none of them would ever let Jon live it down.

“I mean Death follows you, you have been touched by it, you carry Death’s token.”

Her hand moved to the pouch on her belt that contained the iron coin she had been given, she had thought little of it in the last few months, yet at Bran’s words it seemed to throb with an icy cold against her hip.

“Should I get rid of it? Will it’s presence cause problems?” She did not want to get rid of the coin, but if its presence endangered her family then she would get rid of it without any regrets.

Bran’s eyes turned white and Arya knew he was asking the Heart Tree, “Either way will cause problems, but we will regret it more should you get rid of the coin.”

Well that wasn’t ominous at all.

The dark metal coin had always seemed foreboding and now it seemed even more so. She rubbed it against her palm but it did not seem to warm, not in the way normal coins did.

“I think I’ll keep the coin then.” She kicked absently at the snow, determined to try and think of anything less ominous, “Do you want to go ambush Uncle Brynden with snowballs when he exits the keep?”

All trace of mysticism left Brans face as he nodded eagerly. It was reassuring to know that the brother she knew still existed beneath the ‘Three-Eyed Raven’.

* * *

Arya stormed up to her uncle’s solar, she had heard something, a rumour really, in the courtyard and wanted to know whether it was accurate.

“Is it true?” She slammed her hands down on his desk, making him jump back from the work he was doing.

“Is what true Arya?” Brynden asked mildly and Arya felt her fury grow.

“Is it true that you are thinking of sending Rickon and I away?”

He leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hand over his eyes, “Ah.”

“It is true then. You are sending us away.” To her horror Arya realised she sounded choked, like she would start sobbing at any moment.

“It is true.” Brynden confirmed.

His words causied a stab of hurt and betrayal to lance through Arya’s chest. Had she done something wrong? Why would her uncle no longer want her around?

“But not for any reason you might be thinking of.” He continued, “I want to send you, Rickon, and Robin to the Vale before any Lannister forces arrive in the North or before the war at the Wall begins. We need to safeguard the Northern succession and this is the best way I can think of.”

His reasons weren’t as bad as Arya had thought but they still hurt.

“You will regret this.” She hissed, before turning and stomping out of the room.

Before she slammed the door shut behind her she heard her uncle speak once more.

“I already do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Mors Martell was the first husband of the Nymeria that Arya's wolf is named after


	19. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just to remind everyone that the only people at this point who know of Jon's parentage are the alive Starks, Maester Aemon and Howland Reed.

“Queen Sansa, I was hoping I might have a word with you.”

The slight Essosi accent could only belong to one person at the parlay.

“King Aegon, of course, how can I help you?” Sansa kept her words light, kept her fear at being alone with a Targaryen from showing.

Aegon Targaryen drew in a deep breath and dropped to his knees before her, taking her hands in his and looking up at her with painful sincerity in his eyes.

“I would like to offer an apology, from my family to yours. The treatment of your uncle and grandfather were unacceptable, and the kidnapping of your aunt by my father, that is something that can never be forgiven. But still, I should like to make amends on my family’s behalf.”

That was not something Sansa had expected to hear, not something she had really expected to have acknowledged even. She lightly pulled on his hands, asking him to rise.

“I will accept your apology, King Aegon, but first there is something you should know. Contrary to popular belief I do not have four brothers, I have three and a cousin.”

She watched the byplay of emotions on his face as he took in her words. He turned to her with such naked hope on his face that her heart stirred in sympathy.

“Are you saying, are you saying that I have a half-brother?” His voice was so quiet that Sansa had to strain to hear it.

“I am. And from what I could tell, I think he would like to meet you.” Sansa kept her tone gentle, her words soft. She knew such a revelation would be a shock.

“What is my brother’s name?” He asked.

“Jon, your brother’s name is Jon.”

King Aegon sucked in a shocked breath and let out a startled laugh, “I am guessing Rhaegar did not name him then.”

“Rhaegar wished for him to be named Aemon, my aunt and my father disagreed.” Sansa paused and looked at him quizzically, “You do not call Rhaegar father?”

“I do not, his lust for power and lust for a girl of five-and-ten resulted in the deaths of my mother and sister. Because of him the only memory I hold of my mother is her crying as I was taken away.”

Sansa was hit with the sudden urge to hug him, the way she might have hugged Jon or Bran when they were sad. She did not act on it, but the urge was still there.

She supposed that Jon’s secret would be out when people saw him and Aegon side by side, the two did look very much alike. Sansa had to focus on the shocking blue of his hair to remind herself that he was not her brother, so similar did they look.

“You will be welcome to visit Winterfell, King Aegon, provided you do not try and take Jon from us. He is a Stark and will remain one.”

Aegon Targaryen looked slightly taken aback by the stubborn hint to her tone, but Sansa would not let her brother be used as a pawn by a Southerner who had been raised outside of Westeros.

He bowed, a stilted, unpractised sort of bow, and thanked her for her offer. He then stalked off, deep in thought, Sansa had given him much to worry about.

* * *

Margaery was unchanged by the months that had passed since they last spoke and Sansa felt like she herself was almost a completely different person.

She would not, could not, regret any of the events that had caused her to change though.

“Queen Margaery.” She kept her voice level, not wanting to embarrass herself by showing emotions that may not be reciprocated.

“Queen Sansa.” Margaery’s smile was warm and fond, as was her tone and relief filled Sansa’s heart.

Margaery leaned forwards and brushed a gentle kiss against Sansa’s cheek, a cheek that instantly darkened to become as red as her hair.

“It is good to see you so well dear Sansa. The crown suits you.”

Sansa reached up to her crown self-consciously, suddenly aware of how different its sharp lines and harsh materials were when compared to the delicate tangle of golden vines that graced Margaery’s curls.

“As it does you, I must confess I had been concerned about your marriage, but it seems to have worked out for the best.” Sansa said softly, “From what little I’ve heard the people love you.”

Margaery’s face split into a wide smile, and Sansa’s heart gave a little flutter.

“Not as many that love you, I have never had songs sung the length and breadth of Westeros telling of my mercy and inspiring love even in the Westerlands. I must tell you that Tywin was most displeased when he found one of his cousin’s children singing those songs.” Her words were filled with humour.

“I wanted to thank you for sending your brother to help me, he has been invaluable as an advisor, a general, and a friend. I know how difficult it can be to be separated from family, especially family that is decried as traitorous, so thank you.” Sansa held Margaery’s hands as she gave her thanks, hoping desperately that she could see how sincere Sansa’s words were.

“It was a comfort to me, to know that you had my gallant brother by your side.” Margaery admitted, squeezing Sansa’s hands, “It assured me that you were protected, and I had hoped Leonette would be of comfort as well.”

“She was, very much so.” Sansa reluctantly let go of one of Margaery’s hands and reached for her pocket. “I have a gift for you, from your brother and his wife. One best to be pressed into your hands.”

She handed over a scroll, she knew the contents of it. It had been shown to her by Leonette before sealing so that she could be assured that it contained no information that would harm her cause. Sansa may have disliked reading a private correspondence but she did understand the political necessity of reading one bound for a queen they were technically at war against.

Margaery took it with a sort of almost reverence in her face, “I shall save it for later I think. If I wrote a response would you be willing to carry it back for me?”

“I would be happy to. I expect they will be eagerly waiting to hear from you.” A thought suddenly struck her and she tilted her head slightly, “I do have a favour to ask in exchange however, would you be able to get hold of some silk flowers and ribbons for me?”

Margaery looked shocked by her request but agreed to it quite happily, especially when Sansa explained what she wanted them for. An almost wicked smile overtook her face then and she pressed closer to Sansa.

“I will have to leave soon, dear Sansa.” She said regretfully and pressed another sweet kiss to Sansa’s cheek.

Sansa leaned into her warmth a little and tried to ignore the silk cut-outs on Margaery’s gown. It had been sweet to see her friend again and she did not want their time alone together to end.

* * *

The third day of the parlay was when Sansa started to feel impatient, she knew logically that any process took time, but one thing they did not have was time.

Impatience showed on Val’s face, as it did on Lord Umber’s as well. Those who had seen the Others or whose families were in danger were the most impatient with the way the parlay seemed to be going around in circles.

Each of the lords and kings there had agreed that the Others were real, how could they not with the evidence Sansa had presented them with? But they were so busy posturing and arguing over the smallest details they were getting nowhere.

Sansa wanted to scream at them that as they sat there debating on matters that perhaps weren’t trivial but that weren’t important her people were in ever growing danger. That every minute wasted here in the warmth of the South was a minute where the cold of the Others drew closer to her home.

But she was her father’s daughter, she was a Stark and a Tully, and she would not demean herself by yelling. Not when she had been taught how to hold the attention of a room by her parents, by her uncles, by Margaery, and by Cersei Lannister.

“Peace.” She said quietly but firmly and all eyes turned to her. “I understand the importance of your debate my lords, but while you sit here arguing the danger grows ever closer for my people. We cannot afford to argue about the minutiae of a treaty as we would have the luxury of doing in peacetime. Our role is to serve our people and we cannot lose sight of that.”

A strained silence fell upon the hall, until the person Sansa had least expected spoke up.

“She’s right.” Tommen said, his high child’s voice filling the room. “We should not be arguing over who deserves to dock first, we should be focused on ensuring that our people survive the Winter, that there are enough supplies between us all that our men will not starve or freeze to death and add to the Others’ ranks.”

Lord Tywin Lannister looked like he had been slapped, so shocked was he at his grandson, his puppet king, speaking up and condemning his arguments. It was a glorious sight to behold.

Tommen then turned so her was looking Sansa directly in the eye, “What would you suggest, Queen Sansa? You know your lands better than anyone else here I would wager.”

Lord Umber likely knew the lands Sansa was to speak of better than she did, they did border his own after all. But they had discussed this among themselves, her Northern Council before she had even set off for White Harbour, she knew exactly what conditions they were to set out, where they would hope to place armies to have the greatest effect.

“There is a strip of land bordering the Wall, a strip of land not technically beholden to my rule. The Gift was given to the men of the Nights Watch, it is as close to neutral territory as is possible in the North. There are a number of ruined villages within the Gift, ones abandoned after raids by the Free Folk or when their men did not return from war. It is our proposal that the Gift is where the armies of Westeros are stationed.”

Stannis Baratheon nodded at her words, he had seen the Gift and knew that it would be appropriate to house the armies for as long as need be. Next to Aegon Targaryen the red-haired man was nodding as well, and Sansa found herself wondering how he knew of the North.

“That’s all well and good, Lady Stark, but how do you propose to get our armies to this land? I doubt you will agree to let us march through the lands you have laid a claim to.” Lannister sneered.

Sansa refrained from sneering back and kept her tone and expression even.

“There is a port, at Eastwatch, that should serve your needs. Although perhaps I should warn you that there is a standing order at White Harbour, the Fingers and Saltpans to destroy any ship flying the Lannister, Targaryen or Royal Baratheon sigil.” She smiled serenely, “It would perhaps be in your best interests to avoid those ports on your journey.”

He would of course deny it but Sansa could have sworn her uncle snorted lightly at her words and the angry flush overtaking Tywin Lannister’s features.

“Thank you, Queen Sansa.” Aegon Targaryen said, “Those terms seem more than fair. Is there anything in particular we should bring to make the lives of our men easier while in the North?”

Sansa gestured for Lord Umber to answer that.

“Wrap any metal not on the blade in leather, else the cold will stick it to flesh. You’ll want wool and fur, none of this silk or linen nonsense. And however much food you think will be necessary: double it. If it gets cold enough for the river to freeze you’ll be thankful you did.” Lord Umber said in his blunt way.

Both he and Sansa felt discomfort over telling Southerners how to survive in the North with their armies, but it was something they had to do if they did not want to deliver an even larger force to the Others.

“I see.” Aegon Targaryen nodded, “Well I see no problems with your plans, Your Grace, as you and King Tommen said, our role is to protect and serve our people. Provided it sticks to the terms already laid out I will gladly sign your treaty.”

Sansa suppressed her sigh of relief at his words, that meant she only had Lord Tywin to convince. And at this point she was sure he was only being difficult in an attempt to seize the upper hand.

“Lord Umber,” Stannis suddenly said, “You and Lady Val said that the wights can be killed with dragonglass, am I right?”

Val startled at being addressed but did answer, “Yes, but its so rare its almost not worth mentioning.”

Stannis Baratheon leaned forwards and steepled his fingers before allowing a smirk to rise to his face, if one was feeling generous in describing the slightest upturn of his mouth.

“The seat granted to me by my late brother was Dragonstone, as I am sure you all know. Dragonstone has a rather peculiar feature, all its beaches are made of a fine black sand or smooth, glassy black pebbles. If I am not mistaken, I believe the whole of Dragonstone is a dragonglass deposit.”

That was something Sansa had not expected to hear, although it did make sense that if anywhere in Westeros was going to have large deposits of dragonglass it would be the island called Dragonstone.

“We can send silver miners from the North and quarriers from the Vale to begin operations if you are right, King Stannis.” Sansa said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“We will send miners as well.” Tywin Lannister said with an air of distaste, “The Casterly mines are the best in Westeros after all. And if it saves more men from dying then the operation should really have the best. We will sign your treaty, Lady Sansa, let it not be said that when the battle for humanity came the Lannisters stood idle and did nothing.”

Victory sung through Sansa’s veins. She had done it. Had succeeded in brokering a fragile peace between them until the Long Night was over.

From glances to the side her companions and advisors were filled with the same sort of glee.

They had succeeded.


	20. Jon

The entirety of the Northern Lords and those of Baratheon’s lords that remained in the North had been called to the Great Hall, Brynden had received news from Sansa and while he had not told Jon what the message had said he had smiled more than usual after reading it.

“My lords.” Brynden called out, prompting immediate silence throughout the hall, “I have received word from Queen Sansa, her treaty has been signed by Lannister and Targaryen alike. Until the threat Beyond the Wall is dealt with there will be peace between our Houses.”

A wall of noise filled the hall as the lords reacted to Brynden’s words, some with pleasure and others with fury.

Jon could only feel relief.

With men enough to line the whole of the Wall they stood a far greater chance of surviving the war to come. With the dragonglass Brynden went on to speak about they stood an even greater chance of surviving and actually defeating the Others.

It was a better result than they could have dared hope for.

Except now of course they would have to keep an eye out for lords who saw this treaty as a betrayal, those lords who could not see that without the armies of Tywin Lannister and Aegon Targaryen they would have a much harder time defeating the Others. Those who could no see that it meant each of the armies would be equally tired and that it would reduce an attack in the Riverlands while they were fighting at the Wall.

He would ask Arya and her friends to try and find out which of the lords needed watching, and what the impression of this decision was in Wintertown. They were the best at finding information without being discovered.

Hopefully most of the people would understand Sansa’s decision, he did not want her to return to unrest. Not when Winterfell was supposed to be safe.

* * *

Jon had the feeling that his siblings were approaching his upcoming wedding with the same level of dedication that was usually reserved for battle planning. What was most entertaining about it was that it wasn’t even his romantic sister who was involved, it was his siblings who had scorned and complained whenever romance or love was brought up.

Rickon in particular seemed to be insistent on everything going perfectly, he planned with an intensity that bordered on worrying. It had become a usual sight to see his little brother stomping around the godswood and great hall muttering to himself and Shaggydog and measuring things with his hands. It was adorable.

Arya had interrogated Tormund as to what his intentions were with Jon and what traditions Tormund would expect to see at his wedding. Tormund had come away looking both pleased and slightly fearful.

It wasn’t a particularly unusual expression when someone was dealing with Arya.

He himself had been hands off with their planning, when he had been young enough to still hope to be wed to a beautiful lady he had assumed that their parent would be doing the planning as was common, and then, when those dreams were dashed, when he understood that he was different from Robb, he had put all thoughts of marriage to the side and focused on joining the Watch instead. He had no real ideas for what he wanted his wedding to be like, and he trusted his siblings to make it an event he would not hate.

He should have realised the inevitable conclusion of his siblings attempting to plan his wedding, that he would be asked to have an opinion on their choices.

They cornered him after training, in a move that must have been planned. The three of them herded him into the family solar and Rickon sat on him so he couldn’t escape.

Bran took out a roll of paper and looked at Jon with an expression that was all Lady Catelyn, an expression that made Jon want to hide in his room.

“Now Jon, both Sansa and Uncle Brynden say we need to have your agreement if we are to actually go ahead with our plans so you need to sit here and listen to them.”

Despite what many might say Jon did know when he was defeated, and he was not stupid enough to go against his younger siblings when they banded together. The only time it would have been stupider was if Sansa had been there as well.

He was stunned when Theon entered the room as well, he had thought that Theon and the others had a pact of mutual avoidance. Perhaps the opportunity to watch Jon suffer was just too tempting for Theon to pass over.

Whatever had drawn Theon there did not really matter, what mattered was that it now meant there was another witness to his inevitable suffering. He held no illusions that Greyjoy would defend him, not even Robb had succeeded in promoting civility between them.

Arya cleared her throat and Jon’s attention was drawn both to her and the knife she held in her hands.

“We have taken into account the traditions that Tormund has told us of while making these choices, and Sansa has informed us of the arrangements she has already made.” Arya declared, “We just need your opinion on a few simple choices.”

She bared her teeth in a smile more similar to a direwolf’s snarl than anything else and was mirrored by both Rickon and Bran.

“Sansa will be marrying you.” Rickon said, “But you need to decide who will be walking you to the Heart Tree, as Uncle Brynden says Arya and I can’t battle for that job.”

He heard a sound suspiciously similar to a snort come from Theon’s direction and Jon himself wanted to snort at the image of Arya and Rickon battling it out. While he was sure Arya would win, he was equally as sure neither would come away uninjured as Rickon fought dirty.

“Ah.” Jon swallowed, “Why do I need to be walked there anyway? Could I not be the one waiting at the Heart Tree with Tormund walking to me?”

His siblings and Theon all exchanged glances and burst out laughing. Bran laughed so hard he grabbed his stomach and struggled for breath and Rickon nearly fell off Jon’s lap with how hard he was laughing.

Jon could feel his face forming into a pout, he did not understand why that was so funny.

Bran was the one to answer through his laughter, “Because Sansa is delighted at the thought of making you a Stark cloak to wear, an she and Brynden want to turn it into a statement of sorts. You’ll exchange your ‘maiden’s’ cloak for one with the sigil you have chosen for the House you will build at the Dreadfort.”

The answer made sense but it did not explain the laughter.

“Now Snow.” Theon said, sounding almost like the old Theon, enough that Jon did not want to punch him for using that name, “We weren’t laughing at you, but rather the thought of Giantsbane as the maiden in any scenario. You on the other hand…”

Jon had to concede that he did have a point. Tormund did not exactly fit any image of a maiden, in any sense of the word.

“I’m not a maiden.” Was all he could think to say.

His words prompted laughter from Theon and looks of disgust from the others.

“What’s this? Sleeping with your betrothed before your marriage? How very unlike you.”

Jon was not sure why he was so pleased more of the old Theon was coming back, the old Theon was an arse.

“Unless, did you break your vows Snow? Did you bed someone while at the Wall?” Theon continued, sounding scandalised and immensely entertained at the same time.

Arya’s glare turned on Theon, likely she did not want to think of her brother that way at all, but for a man who was rarely confident enough to speak in front of people he was remarkably unaffected by the glare. It was likely his enjoyment of being able to tease Jon again.

“Shut up Theon,” Bran said calmly, in a voice so innocent it meant he was about to humiliate someone. “Just because Jon lives in fear of Osha finding out that he slept with Ygritte, that’s no reason to torment him.”

Theon looked like all his dreams had come true, or at least he did until Bran continued to speak in that too-innocent voice.

“Its quite similar to the fear you felt over Robb finding out your first kiss was with Smalljon Umber.”

If Jon had ever had any doubts about there being gods those doubts would be put to rest. That was the best piece of information he had ever heard and he would forever savour the shade of crimson Theon turned.

Arya huffed impatiently, although there was amusement in her eyes.

“Can we please get back to business? Would you prefer to be walked to the Heart Tree by me or Rickon?”

“Could I not walk by myself? Or have Ghost by my side?” Jon knew his tone was whining but he did not care.

“No.” Rickon’s voice was merciless, “You have to choose me or Arya.”

Which sibling to choose? Either way one of them would be offended, it was a lose/lose situation.

If it wouldn’t be a complete political disaster Jon would ask Theon, if only to prevent the bloodshed that would occur otherwise. But it would be a political disaster so he could not.

Also to be asked might legitimately give Theon a laughter induced heart attack and no one wanted him to die that much.

“Fine,” Jon sighed, “Rickon can walk me to the Heart Tree so we keep some tradition intact, Arya, you can carry the cloaks.”

Rickon wriggled smugly on Jon’s lap, and although Jon could not see it, he was sure that his baby brother was sticking his tongue out at Arya.

“What?” Arya screeched loudly enough that Jon was honestly amazed the glass did not shatter, “But I’m your favourite! Why would you choose Rickon over me?”

He watched as both Bran and Theon tried to hide their smirks and resisted the urge to put his head in his hands.

“I don’t have favourites; you are all equally annoying. And as for choosing Rickon, technically he has a higher rank than you sweet sister, so it might be taken as an insult to me or to him if he was not the one to walk me.” Jon tried to keep his tone patient, “And he is too little to be able to carry the heavy cloaks that will be used, whereas I know you are strong enough.”

Hopefully that flattery would stave off a temper tantrum. And it did seem to be working, Arya’s face had turned thoughtful instead of vengeful.

“Fine,” She eventually conceded, “But I get to dance with you before Rickon does.”

Jon let him self groan this time as her words prompted another round of bickering between his siblings.

He might head to the Wall for a visit if it got him out of another one of these meetings.

Even dying again might be better than sitting through another one of these meetings.

* * *

He might not have gone as far as the Wall but Jon decided to do the sensible thing and hide from his younger siblings for the rest of the week. He knew he couldn’t hide from them forever but he really did not want to be accosted by them baring yet more plans and ideas.

Brynden had laughed at him, but he too was avoiding Arya and Rickon after their discovery of his plans to send them to the Vale. They were both cowards when it came to the vicious ways of Rickon or the vindictiveness of Arya.

He ducked around a corner and straight into Tormund who laughed and caught him in his strong arms.

“Are you hiding from someone Pretty Crow?”

Jon ducked his head so he was not looking into Tormund’s laughter filled eyes.

“I’m avoiding my siblings, if you must know. I don’t think I can survive Arya’s threatening approach to asking me if I would prefer venison or mutton at our wedding feast.”

“Well yer siblings are all a little terrifying, especially yer sisters. I can see why you’d want to hide.” Tormund wrapped his arms tighter around Jon so that he was pulled flush to his betrothed’s body.

Jon relished the hard muscles he could feel beneath Tormund’s furs until his words registered in Jon’s mind.

“Sisters? Don’t tell me you are afraid of Sansa?” He knew his tone was disbelieving but he did not know how anyone could be scared of his sweet sister.

He would sooner believe a blizzard in Dorne than that someone found Sansa terrifying.

“The little one looks like she would happily peel my face off and wear it as an accessory while yer other sister only has to say the word and over a thousand men would jump to do her bidding in the hope of seeing her smile. If that’s not terrifying I don’t know what is.”

Maybe Tormund had a point. It was slightly scary when Sansa could voice an idle wish and have it fulfilled almost instantly.

“You might be scared of Sansa but I’m currently scared of the lot of them, they want me to make decisions that manage to insult at least one of them.” Jon let his head fall against Tormund’s chest.

“Poor Little Crow,” Tormund crooned, “Yer little siblings all being so mean to you. Shall we go and find my little ones? They’ve been asking over that great mutt of yers.”

Spending time with Tormund’s daughters did sound nice, he had not spent much time with them since retaking Winterfell and if he was going to marry their father he should try and get on with them.

Tormund led him out of the castle and towards Wintertown, they must have made quite the comical sight as they ducked round corners and into rooms to avoid Rickon, Arya and even Lyanna Mormont. Bran saw them at one point but he just laughed and warned them that the smith Arya was friends with was nearby.

They did eventually make it to Wintertown without being accosted and Jon felt his shoulders relax slightly. He relaxed further when Ghost came bounding up to him without any of the other direwolves by his side.

The shrieks of delight that came from the house Tormund lived in were both adorable and ear piercing.

Munda and Torva crowded around Ghost and started showering him with love and attention, two thigs the direwolf eagerly sucked up. Their hands disappeared among Ghost’s white fur and the girls giggled as his fur tickled their noses.

Jon suddenly had what was probably a very fun but very bad idea. He looked at Tormund, trying to decide whether or not he would allow his girls to ride Ghost for a short while, either way was equally likely.

He clapped his hands together to draw Torva and Munda’s attention and when he received it leaned in conspiratorially.

“Do you want to see if Ghost will let you ride him?” He whispered.

The girls looked delighted by that idea and jumped with glee, they turned to Tormund with big pleading eyes and begged him to let them.

It would be a far stronger man than Jon who could resist the force of those eyes and Tormund was not in this matter.

“If you get injured I’m not going to be the one explain it to yer mother.” He eventually said, in a tone that indicated this wasn’t the first dangerous activity his daughters had asked him to do.

Admittedly the thought of having to tell Karsi that her daughters were injured because of an idea of Jon’s did make Jon think twice about actually going ahead with it. Why was he surrounded by so many terrifying women?

He was weak to Munda and Torva’s pleading eyes though and so he asked Ghost to stand still.

He picked Munda up first and held her on Ghost’s back until his direwolf gave him a glare as if to say ‘I can handle this leave me be’.

Jon gently let go of Munda but kept his hands ready to catch her as she wobbled slightly. The little girl buried her hands in Ghost’s thick fur and shrieked with joy as the wolf stepped forwards.

Ghost took very slow, very steady steps, each step gentle enough that Munda did not even waver on Ghost’s back. You would not be able to tell that though from the shrieks of delight and shouts of joy that filled the air.

When Munda was replaced by Torva the scene repeated itself, laughter bubbled up from Jon’s chest at the sight of such a small girl on the back of a such a large wolf.

An angry shout had both him and Tormund turning to find the source, and when they did both paled.

A furious looking Karsi stalked towards them, her hand on the axe she carried at her belt. Jon quickly lifted Torva down from Ghost’s back, hoping that she had not seen what exactly they were doing.

Of course his hope was futile.

“Was my daughter riding on the back of a direwolf Giantsbane!” She yelled.

Jon and Tormund exchanged glances, maybe she would only think it was Torva?

Munda ruined that hope.

“I did as well mama!” She called back, waving and grinning quite happily to her enraged mother.

Karsi let out a snarl of pure rage, to angry to even form words any more. She started to pull her axe out of its holder and the people around her back away.

“We should probably run away now.” Tormund mock whispered.

Jon nodded in agreement and the two sprinted down the street, Ghost at their heels, away from the laughter of the girls and the angry shouts of Karsi.

They ran until the houses were behind them and it was just the Wolfswood before them, and only stopped when they were sure that Karsi was not chasing them with an axe.

Ghost looked at Jon with such reproach that Tormund started to laugh again. Jon wanted to be annoyed at the knowledge that Ghost would be sulking at him for the loss of two o his favourite playmates, but Tormund’s laugh was so infectious he found himself laughing so hard his sides hurt.

They collapsed against each other as their laughter died down and Jon was struck with a sense of how much he loved Tormund as he gazed up into those laughing blue eyes. No matter how much he might complain about the preparations for the wedding he was pleased to be marrying him.

“I love you.” He said quietly.

Tormund looked down at him and curled a hand around the back of his head.

“And I love you Pretty Crow, even if Karsi is likely to kill us one day for our hairbrained parenting.”

Jon could feel his brain skip over the word ‘parenting’ used in conjunction with himself, he had no desire to think of himself that way.

Instead he just leaned his head forwards so he was cradled against Tormund and enjoyed the peace and quiet, the gods only knew when they would get the chance again.


	21. Brynden

There were numerous events in Brynden’s life that he regretted, one did not reach half a century without some regrets after all, but admitting to his niece his plans to send her and her brother away to safety was definitely one of them.

His niece and nephew had been showing him their displeasure in a number of ways, and he was quite impressed for while each one was uncomfortable none were dangerous or truly malicious.

He often walked in to his chambers and had the scent of dung assault his nose, whether that be sheep, horse, goat or, on one memorable occasion, direwolf. The dung was hidden around his room, a different place each time so that he was forced to hunt for the source, the most clever so far had been hidden beneath the basket of logs by the fire, the heat had spread that scent everywhere.

Brynden’s cloak was never truly dry, it was always slightly damp to put on, expertly done so while he was never cold he was also never really warm while wearing it.

The most irritating perhaps was the direwolf that lay outside his chamber at all hours of the night whining and whimpering, a sound which often prompted him to go and check on the creature, only to see its tail wagging happily as it rounded the corner away from him.

He was a little annoyed that somehow Jon had got out of also being part of Arya and Rickon’s revenge schemes, although he was unsure whether they actually knew their brother had agreed to it. Or perhaps they agreed that the wedding planning was making him miserable enough.

Brynden found himself amazed that Cat and Ned has not gone grey prematurely with their gaggle of troublemakers, especially when he considered that when they were in Winterfell they had had another child and none of the children had had any responsibilities to stymie their troublemaking. (He desperately tried not to think about Arya and Bran going through puberty in the next few years and the drama he will have to live through.)

There were moments when he found himself second guessing whether it was truly the best idea to send them away, whether it was the best idea to keep them from Winterfell and the family that would be remaining in the castle. These moments often came after they had managed to make him particularly miserable, when his food was somehow burnt and raw, a trick he learned from Jon was all Arya’s doing, or when he had not slept well for the direwolf whining outside his door.

But there were things he had to consider other than the feelings of the children. He had to consider the succession, and he had to keep them safe. He would have some of them live in safety that Winterfell could not offer, not with the Lannisters and Targaryens setting up camp so close, not when they still might lose the war against the Others.

He just needed to make them see that.

* * *

Brynden had instructed his myriad of nephews and his only niece currently in Winterfell that they would be having a meal together, as a family, before Sansa’s return and Jon’s wedding caused them to be scattered across the kingdoms again. He would demand another one when Sansa and Edmure arrived of course, but he had not told them that.

The Lady Asha Greyjoy had joined them, likely her brother had convinced her to come along, although Brynden did not mind. He would never claim her as family, but she was kin to one he had claimed and so she was welcome.

The food they had was no different to what was being served to everyone else, they merely ate in the family solar instead, around a circular table marked by years of use that Jon and Arya both looked at fondly. Laughter sounded around the table as they ate and exchanged stories and teased one another. It was nice.

Out of the corner of his eye he kept seeing Rickon shove angrily at his hair and it was only when Brynden turned and looked at his youngest nephew properly that he realised why. Rickon’s hair had grown long enough that it fell in wild curls over his eyes, some were even long enough that he had to keep spitting them out.

“Rickon.” Brynden said, calling his nephew’s attention over, “You need a haircut.”

The small amount of Rickon’s face that was visible screwed up in displeasure, and his voice became distinctly whiny.

“Why do only I have to have a haircut? What about Bran? It’s not fair.”

Brynden turned his gaze on Bran, and while Bran’s hair was not as long or as wild as Rickon’s it still could do with a cut.

“Bran as well. In fact,” He looked around at all of them, “All of my nephews will be receiving a haircut. And before any of you ask, Arya is not having one because she at least braids her own hair out of the way.”

Protests immediately sprung up around the table, his nephews all horrified by his words, while Arya watched on smugly.

“What is it with Tully’s and haircuts.” He thought he heard Jon mutter.

If the burst of laughter from Theon was any indication then Brynden had heard right. He had heard that Jon had hated haircuts as a child, but he would have thought that Jon might have grown out of that hatred. Apparently not.

“Does that mean that Uncle Edmure will be receiving one as well when he arrives?” Bran asked with a crafty look on his face.

Brynden knew exactly what his nephew was trying to do, knew that Bran was trying to insist that it was unfair if Edmure was left out.

“I said all my nephews. I mean all my nephews. Edmure will also receive a haircut when he arrives with Sansa. The only one of my nephews who won’t receive a haircut is baby Robb, and that’s because he doesn’t have hair yet.”

This announcement made Arya grin even harder at the whines her brothers and cousin let out. They knew that there was no changing his mind and none of them had accepted it with grace.

He was secretly relieved to see Theon whining, the lad they had found in the kennels would not have dared make such a sound. It was a sound of healing and that was a good thing, no matter how infuriating he might have found the Theon who had been by Robb’s side.

“You will all have haircuts because you are all looking scruffy, and unless you continue to complain you will not have to bear much more than a trim.” He looked each of them in the eye in turn, “Or would you prefer Sansa to return and declare you all look like savages?”

They all stopped whinging at that, as Brynden had expected they would. Never let it be said that he did not know how to handle the complaints and whinging of his family.

“Arya, sweetling, when you have finished eating would you mind going and getting the scissors used to cut hair. I’m sure that everyone would be pleased to et this over and done with. Lady Asha, it is your choice whether you stay or not, although I will ask for something sweet to be sent up later to sweeten the tempers of the lads for enduring having their luscious locks cut, if that helps make your decision.”

Lady Asha laughed, “I think I will stay, I will not pass up the chance to see my baby brother cry over a haircut as he did when he was a babe.”

Jon and Arya looked like all their wishes had come true at Lady Asha’s words, while Theon merely looked terribly embarrassed.

Arya rushed to finish her food and left the room to hunt for the heavy scissors that had somehow survived the Boltons. When Robin made to follow her Brynden glared sternly at him until he sat back down, he was pleased that the two were getting on, that Arya’s wooing was working, but he would not let Robin leverage that to get out of this.

He had half expected Rickon to try something to get out of it, but perhaps his little nephew wanted to be able to see properly again. Or perhaps he was content with knowing that his brothers and cousin were suffering alongside him. It was difficult to tell with Rickon sometimes.

Arya returned with a triumphant grin and trailed by a wickedly grinning Tormund.

“I found the scissors, and ran into Tormund. I thought Jon might wish for some moral support, especially as Robb isn’t here to hold his hand this time.” Her grin wavered slightly at the mention of Robb, but returned at the embarrassed flush on Jon’s cheeks.

“That was one time.” He tried to insist.

“It was every time.” Theon said, “Every single time Lady Stark made you get a haircut you had to hold Robb’s hand otherwise you looked like you would cry.”

Jon opened his mouth, presumably to defend himself but was prevented by Tormund pulling him close.

“Don’t worry, Pretty Crow, I will defend you from the terror of your curls being cut.” Tormund reassured him in what was probably meant to be a comforting voice but that came out sounding more amused than anything.

Jon pushed lightly at Tormund and scowled. “You are all horrible. I don’t know why I love any of you.”

Brynden thought it was probably best to put a stop to any more teasing then and there, else he would never get the chance to actually cut any of his nephews’ hair.

“Rickon, you’re first. Sit still.”

Brynden picked up the heavy scissors and advanced on his squirming nephew, he had to concentrate not to make a mess of the cut, but it was a far easier thing to do in the warmth of a castle than the war camp he had learned the skill in. He kept it as quick as he could, knowing that Rickon did not have the patience to sit still for long.

Bran was easy after Rickon, and Robin was too. Both boys sat still and did not need much beyond a trim and a neaten to keep the hair from their eyes and looking presentable.

The trembling from Theon was expected, the lad had been through something terrible and likely would always be affected by anything sharp going near him. Brynden tried to be even quicker with him than he was with Rickon, not wanting him to be put under undue stress. He would never voice it but he knew that was why Lady Asha had remained, to be there as a lifeline for her brother.

Luckily the brittleness of Theon’s hair worked in their favour, it was easy to cut shorter, and it might have been him imagination but Brynden could almost see dark hair coming in at the roots again. Maybe one day the white hair would be replaced with his original dark.

No one commented on it when he all but hid behind his sister when Brynden was done. No one would be so cruel.

Jon trembled as well, and Brynden found himself wondering what had happened to make Jon fear having his hair cut so much. There must have been something for him to have a reaction on par with Theon’s. He would not pry though, merely offer to listen if Jon wanted to talk to him.

He made sure to keep Jon’s curls long, he knew that was how Jon preferred them and that longer hair meant he would not need to have it cut and styled so often. When the Red Priestess had resurrected Jon she had cut some of his hair, leaving it uneven at the back, which was something Brynden attempted to fix.

Jon would be on show soon, his wedding would take place before many of the lords and he would have to look like a prince. They all would have to look their best, would have to perform a show of strength and prosperity, especially as the wedding was being viewed as a confirmation of the alliance between the Winter kingdoms and the Free Folk.

It was not a political marriage but it was one that made political sense. Had it not then Brynden would have advised against it, would have advised against such a statement. He would not have forbidden it but he would not have supported a politically poor marriage, not when the last one he had witnessed had nearly destroyed everything.

As soon as he was done with Jon the lad folded himself into his betrothed’s arms, seeking comfort as trembles wracked his frame.

Brynden let him be, and shot a warning glance at the younger ones, they likely did not need it but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Instead he sent Arya, Rickon and Robin to the kitchens to gather up something sweet as a reward, they had been well behaved so it was not undeserved. He personally went to collect wine from his chambers, he had the feeling that Theon and Jon would both appreciate a drink stronger than ale.

The quiet of the corridor was a stark contrast to the noise of the solar, and yet, Brynden found himself looking forwards to when those who were missing were there as well. Looking forwards to when there was so much noise he could barely hear himself think.

After all, there was no noise too great to bear when it was the sign of a family together despite the odds.

* * *

“My lord! My Lord Hand!” A boy ran up to Brynden, “Banners have been spotted my lord, coming from the South. It’s the Queen, my lord, the Queen has returned.”

Brynden did not run to the walls to see for himself, but he did walk quicker than his usual pace.

The boy had spoken true, the Stark direwolf and Tully trout flew alongside Oberyn’s sun and spears and the chains of House Umber. His niece had returned from the south. Had done what her father had not and survived a second trip south of the Neck.

Something in his chest eased, relief filled his veins. Knowing she was safe, knowing Edmure was safe, that they had faced the Lions and Dragons and succeeded, that was a heady feeling indeed.

He allowed himself to drink in the sight of the pennants for a moment more and then sprang into action. There was much to prepare if they wished to welcome her home properly, much to arrange if they wished to greet their queen as befitted her status and the symbol of her returning to the seat of her power.

Brynden may have disliked the politics and scheming that surrounded the throne but he was proficient at it, had cut his teeth on it during the Blackfyre Rebellions. He knew the pageantry that would be expected, even if it was less in the austere North than it would be in any of the Southern kingdoms.

As he moved through the keep he ordered for more banners to be unfurled, for new ones to replace those that had been out for a while. He ordered for the courtyard to be cleared and the stables ready, for a fire to be lit in Sansa’s room and in the guest chambers. He ordered that water be heated for baths for the travellers and for a grand meal to be prepared using stores he had set aside for this exact purpose.

He found Ellaria and alerted her as well, so that she might greet Oberyn and Val as she wished, and so that she could help with preparing Sansa’s chambers. She had taken on a motherly role with his niece, one he appreciated her doing and she often insisted to be to the one to tend to Sansa’s needs.

Brynden conscripted Jon into rounding up his siblings and ensuring they were presentable and in their formal clothing, he trusted that the lad would be able to manage this task better than any maid he might send after them. At the same time he reminded him that Tormund should be there, as he was about to join the household he should be a member of the greeting party.

He rushed around ensuring everything was proper, taking only moments to ensure he himself was adequately attired for such a formal occasion. The whole household rushed with him, and it seemed that even the direwolves were aware of something for they stayed out from underfoot and submitted to the mud being brushed from their fur with minimal fuss.

And then the horns sounded, summoning them all to the courtyard for the procession had arrived. For the queen had returned to Winterfell victorious.


	22. Sansa

Winterfell’s towers and walls were a welcome sight, one that filled Sansa’s veins with joy and her heart with love. The icy air filled her lungs, and the sky was crisp and clear, the cold welcome after the warmth of the south and salt of the sea.

It meant she was home.

Her uncle shivered on his horse beside her, Edmure had been no further North than the Twins before and his winter cloak was not quite thick enough for the chill of the North. Sansa had already decided she would ensure he received a thicker one when they reached Winterfell, one that would hopefully keep him much warmer.

It took every ounce of the decorum her parents had instilled in her to keep from galloping to the castle and leaving the rest of her company behind. She had desperately missed her family and could hardly wait to see them again.

Horns alerted Winterfell and Wintertown alike of her approach, to allow them the chance to finish the preparations that must have begun as soon as her banners were spotted on the horizon.

And what preparations they were! As she rode into Wintertown there were cheers louder than any she had heard before, louder even than the cheers the Tyrells had received when they arrived after the Blackwater.

Sweet smelling herbs were strewn in her path so that they released their scent as her horse trod upon them. Small children waved at her and called her name, and Sansa made sure to smile at each one individually.

The gates of the castle were open, beckoning her forwards, beckoning her home, but she had to stay at the same slow pace along the street. She had to show her people that she appreciated them, that she cared for them. She would arrange for them to be gifted food and ale that evening, for she did not want them to be resentful of the lords feasting while they tightened their belts in preparation for winter.

She did not want a repeat of the bread riots in Kings Landing.

Finally though, finally they reached Winterfell and as Sansa rode into the courtyard, her courtyard, her gaze locked on her family all lined up, like they had been to meet King Robert oh so long ago.

She had to hold herself back from running into their arms, as much as she might want to she could not act in such a childish way in front of her lords. Not if she did not want them to question her decisions and treat her as a child.

“Your Grace,” Rickon said, with a look of intense concentration on his face, “Welcome home.”

Sansa resisted the urge to coo at her brother, he would not appreciate it, not when he had so obviously worked hard to learn that greeting. She thanked him instead with a serene smile and then, when the formal greeting was done, she held her arms open in invitation.

Rickon did not hesitate, he rushed into her arms and clutched her tightly, a gesture she reciprocated.

“I missed you Sansa.” Her baby brother whispered.

“I missed you too sweetling.” She whispered back, “I’m going to need to greet the others now though, so why don’t you say hello to Uncle Edmure?”

He stepped back and nodded and Sansa moved on to greet Brynden, then Arya, Bran and Jon as protocol dictated. She hugged each of them after the more formal part of their greeting was done and relished being able to hold her family again.

She would likely never admit it but she had had nightmares of returning to an empty Winterfell, of losing her family as she had the last time she had gone South.

The wolves reunited happily as well, letting out woofs of joy and twisting around each other in a whirl so that they were difficult to tell apart. Their pack was reunited, so why would they not celebrate?

Sansa could not focus on just her immediate family however, she had to greet others yet. Some were less a hardship than others, Theon and Robin and Ellaria, Garlan and Leonette, each of those was sweet to see again, and they softened the ordeal of having to greet Lord Baelish while pretending his eyes did not linger on her.

There was a woman she did not know, but who could not be anyone other than Theon’s sister, who was certainly interesting. It was not just the leather breeches and jerkins, but the way she looked at Edmure almost predatorily and the short bow she aimed at Sansa.

“Thank you for looking after my baby brother, Your Grace.” She said in a pleasantly rough voice that almost brought a flush to Sansa’s cheeks, “He might be an idiot, but he is my brother.”

“I’ve found brothers are like that, Lady Greyjoy.” Sansa responded quietly, “They might be irritating yet for some reason we love them.”

Lady Greyjoy let out a loud laugh that startled many, and caused a worried look to flash across Uncle Brynden’s face for less than a second.

“It’s a shame you aren’t a few years older, Queen Sansa.” Lady Greyjoy all but leered, “Else I would propose an alliance between our Houses.”

There was no holding back the flush that came to Sansa’s cheeks, and not for the first time did she curse her fair complexion.

Theon looked absolutely horrified and like he would rather be anywhere else, and her Uncle Brynden and Jon started to almost growl protectively.

“Thank you, Lady Greyjoy. Your words are kind, I can see why Theon always spoke highly of you.”

She moved on quickly. Although she would look forward to the chance to speak to Lady Greyjoy again, she was sure just from that short conversation that Arya must be already half in love with her.

Lady Greyjoy was the last person she had to greet individually, and she let her hand be grabbed by Rickon to be led into the hall. His hand curled into hers and she found herself saddened by it being bigger than the last time they had done this.

She could not be sad for long though, not when she was finally home.

* * *

Sansa was impressed by the planning that her siblings had done in her absence, they had taken the vague ideas she had given to Arya and taken them almost to fruition. She was not stupid, she knew Jon had never thought of what he would like for a wedding, certainly not a wedding of such political importance, and that Tormund did not know their customs well enough to be able to plan alone.

She had asked Arya, Bran and Rickon to take on the task, to keep them busy and out from underfoot as much as to provide Jon with the wedding he deserved.

There were still some things to sort out, and she had to finish sewing the cloaks she was preparing for him, a Stark cloak and one with his new sigil on it. She was proud of both the cloaks, but especially the design of his new sigil, it was still a direwolf, but facing the other way and she had made it in the colours of Ghost, had made his colours white and red.

Had incorporated some of the Targaryen colours alongside the Stark, for although he did not wish that part of his heritage to be revealed outside of family it would be a fool who id not plan for such a secret to be revealed. And if there had been subtle hints all along then people were more likely to accept such an upheaval.

She placed her hands on the table as she looked at her siblings and grinned, “This is all excellent work. Those of the Lords and Free Folk who are travelling for this should be arriving by the end of the week, and then if I am not wrong the wedding will be early next week?”

Arya nodded, “We thought it was best to host it while lords were already here for the war councils, that it might make them work better with the Free Folk if one of their chieftains is married to a member of House Stark. Of course, we won’t tell them that the Free Folk don’t see marriage that way.”

Arya and Sansa exchanged vicious smirks as the thought of using their lords’ unwillingness to learn about the free Folk customs against them. Anything that would make the lords’ egos easier to handle and not bruise had to be a good thing.

“That’s good, as for the decorations, I have some ready to go in the hall, but we will still need bowers of greenery. Rickon, do you think you could take Robin and show him how to make them along with your friends? It would be a great help.” Sansa’s voice was cooling and sweet and her words made Rickon’s chest puff up.

Arya and Bran laughed slightly at the proud look on Rickon’s face at being asked to do something of such importance but they did not tease him, they remembered being the same when they were asked to make garlands and wreaths for feasts and celebrations by mother or father.

“Do we know what Jon and Tormund are planning on actually wearing other than their wedding cloaks?” Sansa directed the question to Bran who held ever so slightly more of an interest in that sort of thing than Arya.

“Uncle Brynden has sorted Jon out, he asked your ladies to make him a set of clothes suitable for the occasion.” Bran answered, and the smirked, “And Tormund has commissioned a set for himself, he wants to surprise Jon by not wearing furs.”

“I’ve seen what he’s going to wear.” Arya said, “Jon’s going to be struck dumb.”

That did not really mean anything, Jon was struck dumb by the sight of Tormund on a normal day. At least he wasn’t _pining_ anymore, that had been excruciating to witness.

“Well lets just hope he doesn’t forget his vows. As for the feast, it won’t be as grand as it would be in summer unfortunately, but I’m making arrangements for the lords to go on a hunt beforehand, to restock the stores as well as to keep them entertained and thankful of our hospitality. If you would be willing to join them Arya then that would be excellent.”

Her little sister nodded, they would need Stark representation on such a trip and it was not fair to make Jon be the only one to handle the attentions of the lords. Not when he still looked slightly stunned when people referred to him as a Stark.

Sansa looked at each of them in turn, her face and tone turning serious.

“I know that Uncle Brynden is planning on sending you to the Vale after Jon’s wedding, and I know you aren’t pleased about it. But I do agree with him. I will be sending you with a copy of all the documents you might need, as well as enough coin that if it comes to it you can purchase a property in Essos. A ship will be instructed to remain in the harbour for you and if Winterfell falls you will flee to Essos.”

Immediately her siblings began to protest, as she had known they would. Sansa held up her hand to cut them off.

“That was not a suggestion but an order. You will stay safe for as long as possible. However, Lord Baelish will unfortunately be going with you. Arya, Rickon, you have my full authority to dispense justice if it becomes necessary.”

From the bloodthirsty grin that slid across their faces Sansa knew there was little chance of Littlefinger surviving Arya and Rickon’s visit to the Vale. She could not find it in herself to care, if he died then that would be one less thing to worry about, one fewer pair of eyes observing her as though she was a piece of meat or a cyvasse piece.

“Does that mean Shaggy can eat him if he calls him a smelly mutt?” Rickon asked.

Bran grinned, “Shaggy is a smelly mutt, you can’t execute someone for telling the truth. If he called Shaggy a well behaved, well groomed wolf, well that would be a lie you could attack him for.”

Rickon let out a feral little growl and launched himself at Bran, uncaring that their brother could not get out of his way. Sansa and Arya exchanged looks and decided not to intervene, they would let their idiot brothers fight it out.

“Theon’s been helping us as well.” Arya commented, reaching for a piece of fruit, “He’s helped us decide what music needs to play at the feast, and helped with choosing the right outfit for Jon.”

“I bet Jon was pleased with that.”

Arya smirked, “He looked like he would rather be anywhere else.”

There was a crash and they turned to see Bran and Rickon on the floor, a handful of Rickon’s hair in Bran’s hand and Rickon’s teeth clamped into Bran’s arm. Considering that one of them could not move his legs they were managing to have quite the wrestling match.

“Should we split them up?” Sansa asked.

“Nah, they’ll get tired eventually.” Arya said. “I think Rickon will win, he’s scrappier.”

“Bran will win, he’s sneakier.”

Arya pulled out a coin, “Would you like to place a bet on it?”

Sansa thought about it, should she really place a bet on the outcome of a fight between her brothers?

“Absolutely.”

* * *

It was strange to knock on the door of the room that had once been hers, Jon had been offered Robb’s old room when they retook the castle, but he had refused it. Sansa did not blame him at all for that, she would have done the same with their parent’s chambers had she had that option.

Instead Robb’s room sat empty and untouched, and Jon had moved into the room that had been hers, with its floral hangings replaced by slightly more masculine ones. Not that he slept in there often, they all piled in together in the bed that had been their parents more often than not.

She held a gift for him, one she had found while searching through the castle attics. She had not known what she was looking for when she went up there, but one box in particular had called to her and it had been in there that she found the gift as well as other items they would all find interesting.

Jon opened the door and let her into the room, he took the bundle out of her arms and set it down on the bed, leaving her to place her sewing basket next to it.

“I just wanted to check the fit of you cloaks.” She said, unfolding the bundle to reveal the two heavily embroidered pieces of fabric.

Jon ran a finger down the maiden’s cloak reverently, “This is beautiful Sansa, it must have taken you forever.”

Sansa flushed, “It’s the least I could do. The heirloom cloak is still in Kings Landing, if the Lannisters have not destroyed it. So we needed a replacement and well, I couldn’t have you walking to the Heart Tree in something that looked hastily made.”

It was a thing of beauty, she would admit that. The Stark direwolf was central in silver thread, surrounded by knots of winter roses in a blue so pale it looked almost white, and the whole thing was trimmed in white fur.

She placed it around his neck and reached into her sewing basket for her gift.

“I have a gift for you, brother.” She said, holding it out so he could see the direwolf’s head cloak pin in her hand. “It was fathers, I found it in the attics, in a box containing things from when he was younger. Its yours now.”

Jon looked as though he might cry as Sansa used the silver pin to hold his maiden’s cloak in place. She stalked around him, checking its drape and length and making sure that there were no major adjustments that might need to be made.

“Sansa, that’s, that’s, it should be yours. Or Arya’s or Bran or Rickon’s. It should be one of Ned Stark’s children’s, not mine.”

Sansa glared at him, slightly surprised she was now tall enough to look him in the eye without having to look up. She channelled every ounce of her mother’s displeasure and father’s disappointment as she spoke.

“You shut your mouth Jon Stark. You are as much Eddard Stark’s child as I am. You talk like that again and I’ll set Arya on you.”

Jon lowered his eyes, and Sansa rolled hers. She took the cloak off his shoulders, it did fit well but now she had to check the other.

As soon as the marriage cloak was on she stared to speak again.

“As you know Aegon Targaryen was at the parlay,” He tensed beneath her hands but Sansa continued to speak, “He sought me out to apologise for the actions of his father and grandfather. He was actually quite charming.”

Jon lifted his head and looked directly at her, “Oh?”

His voice was somehow disinterested and invested at once and Sansa was impressed.

“Yes, although he had bright blue hair which I was not expecting at all. And, he wants to meet you. I told him what we agreed on, but he would still like to meet you.”

“I guess it would not be too bad to meet him, as long as he doesn’t try to take me away from any of you.” Jon sounded so unsure that Sansa wrapped him in a strong hug.

“If anyone tries to take you from us without your consent then they will meet the swords of a thousand Northmen and know the persistence of the Starks.” She vowed, not letting him go.

Jon laid his head on her shoulder and curled in to her hold slightly.

“Thank you. For the cloaks, and well, all of this.”

Sansa did not reply, merely held him a little tighter and smiled against the top of his head.

* * *

“Did you know Uncle Brynden is training Bran as his replacement? He said that since Bran can see things he might as well put that skill to good use ‘for the sake of the family’.” Arya whispered in the darkness of the bedchamber.

Sansa rolled over to look at Arya incredulously.

“So if he has his way my baby sister will be my Master of Whispers, my brother will be my Hand, and my other brother will be Master of War, all while Rickon is somehow heir.”

Arya propped herself up slightly so she was looking down at Sansa, “Would that be so bad though? Then none of us would ever leave you.”

It was a sweet thought, to be surrounded forever by her siblings.

“We’d kill each other in a week without adult supervision.”

They looked at each other and broke down in giggles, giggling hard enough that the bed was shaking. Or at least, until Rickon rolled over groaning and they had to stuff their mouth with their fists to stop themselves waking their brothers up.

It was the last night they would all share a bed for a while, all of them piled up together, for Jon would be going to his marriage bed and Arya and Rickon would be leaving Winterfell altogether. The bed was warm and crowded and undoubtedly they would all wake with someone else’s hair in their faces but it was perfect.

“I’m going to miss having you all around.” Sansa whispered, “It’ll be so quiet without you all making a mess everywhere.”

Arya looked like she wanted to hit her but did something much worse. She leaned over and dug her fingers into Sansa’s ribs, tickling until Sansa was squirming and crying from laughter.

A loud thump and a curse had them freezing and peering over the edge of the bed to see Jon on the floor with a decidedly grumpy expression on his face.

“Wha- what happened?” He sounded half asleep still and very confused as to why he was on the floor instead of curled up in bed.

“Arya did it!” “Sansa did it!” The two of them said simultaneously, pointing at each other.

Jon groaned and looked like he could not believe he was dealing with them.

“S’nsa, move over. Try not to wake the boys.” He groaned, levering himself off the floor, “I’ll go between you both.”

Sansa moved over as he said, feeling guilty at disturbing him and wanting to be away from Arya’s bony fingers.

Jon clambered back beneath the sheets and fell back to sleep almost instantly. Sansa could see that Arya burrowed into his side but before she dd so she sent Sansa a smug grin.

Sansa was left wondering whether Arya was sneaky enough to have planned the whole thing.


	23. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter we've all be waiting for - I've had part of this one written since before I even finished the first chapter of A Crown of Iron! 
> 
> This will probably be the last chapter of this story which is almost purely fluff...

Jon looked at the pile of clothing laid out on his bed and started to panic a little. The silks and lambswool was finer than anything he had ever worn and he was half scared that if he ever touched them he would somehow manage to damage the fine fabrics.

He even had new underthings to go with his outfit and the thought of them, the thought of later that night, was enough to make his cheeks flush as red as his siblings’ hair.

He was inordinately grateful for the knock on his door, although he was surprised by who stood there.

“Your sister and Uncle Brynden sent me to help you.” Edmure said, moving into his rom and looking appraisingly at the clothing Jon had yet to put on. “They said you would probably need help with your clothes as you aren’t used to the style, and that it would do me good to do something instead of think about the last wedding I attended.”

The last wedding – oh. The last wedding Edmure would have attended would have been his own. Would have been the Red Wedding.

Jon smiled weakly, “Well if Her Grace commanded it, I would appreciate some help with these clothes. I have no clue what half the ties are for.”

Edmure grinned at that and for a moment looked so much like Robb that Jon half expected to be called ‘Snow’ in that affectionate tone that only Robb had used.

“Look on the bright side, at least you don’t need to wear a corset.”

Edmure slapped him on the back and went to examine the clothing closer. He picked up two pieces and handed them to Jon with instructions to put them on first.

Jon ducked behind a screen to do so, uncomfortable with baring himself in front of someone he did not know. There was another knock on the door when he was dressing and muted voices.

To his slight horror when he emerged from behind the screen, clad in a fine linen undershirt and smallclothes, Theon stood there as well, looking over the layers of cloth with Edmure. Undoubtedly Sansa had sent him as well, or maybe Arya if she was feeling particularly annoyed with him for some reason.

Edmure and Theon were talking without the stiffness that would be expected from people who had just met, except, Jon shook himself, they knew each other from before. They had met when Robb was the King in the North.

He coughed lightly and they turned back to him, both of them grinning widely.

“Well I can finally see what your man sees in you Snow,” Theon said, “You are very pretty under your layers of leather and fur.”

“Shut up Greyjoy.”

“I’m just saying,” Theon leaned back and held his hands up defensively, “Although are you sure you don’t want to wear a dress? I can go steal one of Sansa’s if you like, you’re the same height now.”

Jon grabbed a cushion, a pretty one almost certainly left over from when the room was Sansa’s, and threw it at Theon’s stupid face. It hit him square in the mouth and the look of baffled offense was one that Jon would probably treasure for the rest of his life.

“Now lads, lets not fight.” Edmure said, laughter in his voice. “Especially not on Jon’s special day. We don’t want the blushing bride to have a bruise on his face now, not when his betrothed could probably crush our skulls with his bare hands.”

“Oh shut up Tully, stop trying to channel your sister. You aren’t that much older than us and no one can do the eyebrow of disappointment like Lady Catelyn could.” Theon said, but he did put down the boot he had picked up to throw back.

Instead he tossed a few pieces of fabric at Jon, with instructions to put those on next.

Jon did not bother going behind the screen this time as he pulled on the close fitting silk shirt and fine lambswool breeches. The fabric was softer than anything he had ever worn, as fine as the clothes Robb had had for the King’s visit.

Everything was pale grey and white, except for the red of the weirwood leaves embroidered along the collar, the same colour as Ghost’s eyes.

He let Theon and Edmure lace up his doublet, tighter than he would normally have done so. But when he looked in the polished metal of the mirror it did fit him well, and he almost did not recognise himself.

For the first time he looked like a lord or the prince his sister had proclaimed him to be,

“Well I’m sure my sister would have had a heart attack if she had ever heard me say this, but you don’t look half bad, I can see what she saw in your father and uncle. If I wasn’t so worried that your betrothed would crack my head open like an egg I would probably proposition you.”

Jon and Theon exchanged looks of horror at Edmure’s words, and Jon was starting to see why Bryden had once referred to Edmure as a ‘loveable idiot with no verbal filter’.

“Do you know what my siblings are doing at the moment?” Jon asked, desperate to change the subject.

“Rickon and Arya were chasing your wolves last I heard, trying to tie ribbons around their necks.” Theon responded, his eyes grateful for the conversation change, “Bran is directing the people setting up the Godswood, and Sansa is ensuring the Great Hall is decorated to her standards.”

Jon felt a hint of sympathy for those being directed by his sister, she could be a tyrant when it came to making a room look good. He was not ashamed to admit that he had had a nightmare before about Sansa trying to direct him in decorating a room.

He was pushed down into a chair and handed a set of boots to put on, he was thankful to see that they weren’t new, but instead his old ones that had been cleaned and polished so that he could almost see his reflection in them. Another wave of panic overtook he as he stood and his maiden’s cloak, he had given up on arguing about the name, was put around his shoulders.

He really was getting married. It wasn’t a dream. It was actually happening. In a few short hours he would be calling Tormund his husband.

Jon’s breath began to come through in short, sharp bursts that left him feeling lightheaded.

A heavy arm draped around his shoulder and Theon’s low, surprisingly soothing voice spoke in his ear.

“Hey, Snow, calm down. Stop worrying, you love Tormund right? You can see yourself pending the rest of your life with him?”

Jon nodded, he did and he could.

“Then you have nothing to worry about. As soon as you see him all your worries will melt away. And just, just be pleased that you get your chance with the one you love.” Theon’s voice sounded so sad at the end.

“I’m sure that if he’d had the chance Robb would have married you.” Jon said, the only words he could think of.

A self depreciating smile crossed Theon’s face, “He wouldn’t have, he was much too dutiful for that.”

There was no way that Jon could answer that statement. While he liked to believe that Robb would have followed his heart when it came to Theon, he also knew that he probably wouldn’t have married someone who could not give him heirs, he was far too dutiful to do otherwise.

He didn’t say anything more, just took a deep breath and turned to face the door. He had the man he loved to marry and was lucky to have the chance to.

* * *

There were a few things that Jon had never expected out of life. He had never expected to sit as an advisor to his sister as she ruled three kingdoms, had never expected to be an ambassador between the Free Folk and those south of the wall, and most of all he had never expected to marry.

He certainly had not expected to marry before Sansa, his sister having dreamed of marriage and motherhood from a young age, and yet, he would never have expected little Sansa, the apple of Robb’s eye, to rule with such iron.

He most certainly had not expected to marry a man. Mere moons before that would have been an offence punishable by flogging or worse and now he was being wed by the queen herself in a ceremony attended by numerous great lords of the land.

And yet, there he was, walking to the heart tree at Winterfell on the arm of his youngest brother. A heavy cloak hung over his shoulders, grey and white and embroidered with the dire wolf of House Stark, his outfit was more elaborate than any he had ever worn, made of fabrics that felt soft against his skin.

His fiancé already stood under the tree, side by side with Sansa who was grinning under her crown. Someone had managed to wrangle Tormund into an outfit more suitable for a wedding than his usual furs and Jon felt a bolt of lust shoot down his spine at the way his muscles bulged beneath the silks.

His grip on Rickon’s arm tightened and he could see his brother smirk out of the corner of his eye, but Jon didn’t care.

“Who comes before the old gods this night?” Sansa asked when they reached the weirwood.

“Jon of House Stark, Prince of Winter, comes here to be wed. A man grown, trueborn and noble.” Rickon said, with unusual solemnity in his voice. “Who comes to claim him?”

“Tormund Giantsbane, of the Freefolk.” Tormund intoned, looking at Jon with something heavy in his eyes, “Who gives him?”

“Rickon of House Stark, Prince of Winter, his brother.” Rickon stepped back once he had said his carefully learned lines, the solemn look replaced by a wide grin.

“Prince Jon do you take this man?” Sansa asked.

“I take him.”

Sansa nodded to Tormund who unclasped the cloak from around Jon’s neck and replaced it with one Arya handed to him. Jon then took another cloak from Arya’s hands and leaned up to clasp it over Tormund’s shoulders.

He could not help but lean ever so slightly into Tormund’s warmth, couldn’t help but savour the feeling of those broad shoulders encased in silk beneath his hands.

“With this kiss I pledge my love.” Tormund said, leaning his head down.

“With this kiss I pledge my love.” Jon tilted his head back to allow their lips to meet.

A cheer went up from the crowd, but Jon paid that no attention. He was far too focused on the feel of the lips against his own and the warm hand cupping the back of his head.

It was only when the wolves joined in with the cheers by howling that he pulled back his head as grinned. Jon clasped his hand in Tormund’s and turned so that they were facing the crowds who were watching them.

Suddenly his feet were swept out from under him and Jon found himself flung over Tormund’s shoulder, his face staring at Tormund’s cloak clad back and his feet against Tormund’s chest.

“Wh- what? Tormund, what are you doing?” He whispered harshly, trying to ignore the laughter on his sibling’s faces.

“I’m stealing you, Pretty Crow. It’s not a wedding if someone isn’t getting stolen.”

He started to run down the aisle, his strong arm across Jon’s back stopping Jon from bouncing uncomfortable against his shoulder, and when Jon looked up he could see Arya and Rickon chasing after Tormund, waving daggers. His siblings had obviously planned this with Tormund for they were laughing as they chased his husband towards the keep.

They were joined by Arya and Rickon’s packs of friends, until Tormund had a trail of children chasing after him, much to the laughter of the Free Folk and Northerners and scandalised looks from those below the Neck.

* * *

The Hall was decorated like something out of a song, bowers of greenery covered the walls and hung from the rafters, each one adorned with red silk ribbons and white roses which upon closer inspection were also made from silk. The heady scent of pine and spices filled the air and the tables were laid with metal crockery instead of the usual wooden plates and cups.

Each table was groaning with food, wine and ale, with dishes that were both Westerosi and Free Folk in origin. And the Westerosi dishes were not just Northern, there was fish in the style of the Riverlands and Iron Islands, a pot of meat and vegetables smelling of Dornish spices, and a bread shaped like feathers that could only come from the Vale. There was even a pie known as ‘Dragon’s Breath’, a recipe brought over by the Targaryens three centuries previous that Jon knew had been a staple of every Targaryen marriage recorded.

Tormund set him down on his feet when they entered the Hall, but did not remove his hands from Jon’s waist. They both were laughing at the disappointed whines of the children as they had entered the Hall and thus out of chasing range, and at the exhilaration of the chase in the first place.

Tormund captured his lips in another kiss and Jon had just reached up to curl his hand in Tormund’s hair when the doors opened once more.

“Eww, Jon, do you have to do that now? There are innocent eyes here.” Arya whined, “Can’t you wait until the bedding?”

He kissed Tormund for a minute longer, just to be contrary and then turned to his baby sister.

“Innocent eyes? Where?”

She scowled and stomped to her place at the High table, only to be moved by Sansa for their places had changed for this feast. Rickon followed, and so did Brynden with Bran perched on his back.

“My girls have a gift for you, Pretty One.” Tormund said as he pulled Jon over to their chairs on the centre of the High Table. “Another Free Folk custom.”

“I’d be happy to receive it.” Jon smiled.

As if they were summoned, Torva and Munda ran into the Hall, ahead of the others who were slowly starting to file in.

“We have this for you.” Torva said, holding out something. “It’s to bring you luck.”

He took the item from her and turned it over in his hands. It was a wreath, one made from blue winter roses and mistletoe all wound together.

“You wear it on your head.” Munda said, “And then the Gods know that you are the one to give their blessing to.”

Jon placed it on his head, trying not to think of the last time someone in his family had worn a wreath of blue roses.

“You look very pretty Jon.” Rickon said, reaching to take some food, only to have his hand gently slapped by Arya.

“You can’t eat until after the speeches stupid.” She said. “But you do look pretty Jon. The flowers suit you.”

Jon smiled wryly, “Thank you Arya, Rickon. And thank you girls, its very lovely, you must have spent a long time on it.”

Torva and Munda giggled and moved to their seats by Tormund’s side, not responding to him.

“You do look very pretty, my lovely crow.” Tormund whispered hotly in his ear, “If you were a girl that crown would be for fertility as well, not that we can’t try.”

Jon shifted in his chair, suddenly feeling very warm, but he was prevented from replying to Tormund’s words by Sansa standing.

“My lords, my ladies, honoured guests.” She said in a clear, commanding voice that turned all attention on her. “We are here to celebrate the marriage of my brother and his beloved, there are some of us here who thought this day would never come, that my darling brother would remain oblivious forever.”

Laughter swept through the Hall and Jon could feel his cheeks begin to heat.

“But here we are, and I will be shocked if they are not still making us envious of their love many years from now. For theirs is one built on trust and shared experiences and will stand the test of time. To Prince Jon and his husband, Tormund of the Free Folk!” Sansa raised her goblet in a toast and her toast was echoed throughout the room.

Mance was the next to rise, he had travelled from the Wall to see this marriage with all its political connotations.

“If you had told me that the Baby Crow that Ygritte brought to my camp was one day going to marry one of my best chieftains then I would have laughed you right out of Westeros. If you had also told me that one of my chieftains would one day marry Ned Stark’s son, one that I had caught planning on throwing snow on his father’s ward when he was a young boy, well I think I might have burst my stomach from laughing so hard. And yet here we are. I would hope you join me in wishing them the best of luck.” He too raised his goblet and once more a toast was made.

Jon risked a glance at an outraged looking Theon, he had never found who had been to blame for the pile of snow landing on him with such force it had knocked him over, and now Mance had just told him.

“It seems you always were a troublemaker then, Pretty One.” Tormund murmured as he reached to start filling his plate.

“Mance had promised Robb and I he would never tell.” Jon murmured back as he too filled his plate with a little of everything that looked good.

Tormund started to laugh and then bit into a pepper that had Jon wincing. His cheeks reddened instantly and Tormund reached eagerly for the ale on the table to cool his no doubt burning tongue.

“Was the Dornish pepper a little hot?” Jon teased gently.

Tormund scowled at him but took the bread the Jon offered to cool his mouth.

“What kind of sorcery was that?” Tormund asked, “Who would eat such a thing and find it enjoyable?”

Jon looked over at Oberyn who was eating one with great relish, “The Dornish apparently.”

He was pulled into a conversation with Bran and Sansa, talking about the decorations (the silk roses had apparently been a gift from Margaery Tyrell of all people) and the sight that had been Rickon trying to tie a red ribbon around Shaggydog’s neck that morning.

Most of the food had gone when a horn sounded from the door to the kitchens and it was flung open to reveal a parade of maids carrying dishes and platters of sweet things.

“There’s something special coming as well.” Bran whispered, and, sure enough four men carried a large sculpture right up to the top table.

It was a stunning confection of marchpane, shaped into the Stark Direwolf, and surrounded by smaller versions of all the House sigils sworn to Sansa. It was impressive and delicate and must have taken days to prepare. Everyone clapped and cheered as the chef came forwards, looking proud of their creation.

Sansa rose to congratulate the chef, and so did Jon, for it truly was a piece of artistry.

It was tasty as well, and any other day Jon would have been horrified by the amount of sugar his siblings were eating. But this was not his day to worry about their eating habit, his was a day for him to enjoy himself, to enjoy the company and the food.

Music started when the dessert course was almost complete, and Jon could see that a number of the people who had been at the Red Wedding tensed at the sound, but relaxed when it was one of Arya’s compositions glorifying the Starks.

Tormund held a hand out to Jon and led him to the dance floor, tradition dictated they opened the dancing and Jon was impressed to discover Tormund must have been given lessons on how to dance in the Northern way.

They spun around the floor to cheers and clapping, their marriage cloaks flying behind them with each twist and twirl.

Others started to join them on the dance floor, and Jon knew that soon enough they would need to dance with other people, but for the moment he savoured the feeling of Tormund’s arms around him and the warmth of his body and his smile.

Sansa cut in though, as the next song started. It was her place to, he supposed, protocol dictating that he dance with her first after his husband.

Jon smiled at his little sister as he spun her around the dance floor, “I wanted to say thank you. Without you none of this would have happened.”

Sansa giggled, “You don’t need to thank me, silly. I’m pleased that one of my siblings can be happy. Although, have you seen Arya over there?”

She tilted her head with a sly smile and Jon looked over to see his baby sister actually smiling as she danced with the blacksmith friend of hers.

“I’m sending Gendry there with her to the Vale. And Lyanna, and if Tormund agrees, I was going to send his daughters as well.” Sansa said.

Jon looked at her with wide eyes, “You would do that?”

“Rickon gets on with them well enough, and it will make you and him happy. Why wouldn’t I?”

Jon spun her around again, so that her skirt fanned out, and relished her giggle of delight.

“Thank you, Sansa. Now the very scary Asha Greyjoy is eyeing you like she would like a dance, would you like me to steer you near her?” Jon teased, enjoying the ever so slight flush that rose to her cheeks.

He had been surprised at first by the way Sansa’s attention was drawn to pretty girls, or strong girls, but then she had always been more interested in the romance of a song than the prince within it. He knew nothing would come from Asha Greyjoy and Sansa dancing, Lady Asha had said it herself that Sansa was too young, but it was harmless to allow Sansa a dance.

Jon twirled his sister over to the Ironborn and gave Lady Asha a warning look that had the lady promising not to besmirch his sister’s honour.

Arya caught him before anyone else could, and balanced on the tips of his shoes as they moved around the floor, as she had done when they were younger.

“If Tormund ever does anything to hurt you, I’ll slice his face off.” Arya said so matter-of-factly that Jon had to choke down a laugh.

“Oh will you? Do you not think I can defend myself?”

“Well as I have a better track record of not dying I think that answer is yes, Jon.”

He couldn’t keep down his laugh at that. Trust Arya to use his death against him to win an argument.

“You are a menace little sister.” He said, moving a hand from her shoulder to ruffle her hair instead.

“I know.”

* * *

“I… I haven’t done…” Jon looked down at the floor in embarrassment, and a gentle hand lifted up his chin.

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Pretty Crow, we’ll go as slow or as fast as is comfortable for you.” Tormund smiled, “Now am I correct in saying that Ygritte is the only person you’ve been with?”

The blood rushed back into Jon’s cheeks as he nodded, not breaking eye contact with Tormund.

“It’s similar to that, get yer partner slicker than a baby seal before doing anything and everyone will have much more fun.” Tormund released Jon’s chin and gently pushed him back towards the bed.

Jon sat down on the edge of the bed and watched Tormund with wide eyes as his husband (and how that word sent a shiver down his spine!) searched for something.

“The partner of yer uncle gave us a wedding gift, said he hoped we had fun.”

Embarrassment and apprehension filled Jon’s veins at the thought of whatever Oberyn could have given them, he had heard the stories of Dorne. The things that went on there formed one of Septa Mordane’s favourite lectures on morality so how could he have not?

Tormund emerged with an innocent looking glass vial, containing a clear golden oil that Jon had little problem imagining the uses of.

He set the oil down on the side and moved over to Jon and began to unlace his doublet, a gesture Jon returned after some hesitation. It was slow going as every so often one would kiss the other, small, soft kisses that inevitably deepened.

The same pattern continued with their shirts, until they stood there in just their undershirts and breeches, looking at each other with lust.

Tormund cupped his cheek and pulled his head so that Jon was looking up into his face.

“Are you ready then, Pretty Crow?” Tormund asked, his eyes sincere, “We can wait if you are not.”

Jon took a deep breath and looked deep into Tormund’s eyes so that there would be no confusion.

“I’m ready.”

A smile lit up Tormund’s face and he bent his head down to capture Jon’s mouth in a kiss more passionate than any they had shared before. One that Jon melted into until he forgot everything but Tormund.


	24. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An image I wasn't able to get in to this chapter or the previous but that should make you laugh:   
Arya sat at the High Table staring straight into Baelish's eyes as she bites the head off a marzipan mockingbird.

Arya was not happy about being sent away. She understood why, but that did not mean she was happy about it. Because she most certainly was not.

It was unfair that she was being sent away when Bran and Sansa got to stay behind.

The only solace was the people who had been sent with her, that she was not the only one being sent away from the danger. That and the promise that she could deal with Littlefinger if she deemed it necessary.

Their send off had not been as grand as Sansa’s had been, but had still been grand enough that Arya had felt uncomfortable from the attention on her. It had felt more final than when they had left with father, Arya was not stupid, she knew the likelihood of returning to Winterfell was low.

If the Wall fell and Winterfell was overrun she would not return. If they won the war against the Others but the Lannisters or Targaryens turned on them in the aftermath, she would not return. If the war ran longer than seven years then she would marry Robin as per their agreement and wouldn’t return except for visits.

It had been difficult to pack up the belongings she wanted to take, had been difficult to deal with the memories of the last time she had done such a thing when her father and mother and brother were alive.

She had kept up a stoic face though, had not let baby Rickon see how much she did not want to be doing this. Rickon had been tearful at leaving them, at leaving Jon and Bran and Sansa and Brynden, and even Osha holding him had not calmed his tears.

He did not understand why they were leaving, only that the last time he had left Winterfell he had been fleeing for his life from people who had stolen his home.

It was easy to forget sometimes that Rickon was only five, that he did not have the memories of trips to places like White Harbour or Last Hearth with mother and father, that he associated leaving Winterfell with loss and fear.

Arya had never needed to be the elder sibling before, had not needed to be the comforting, responsible one. That had always been Robb or Jon or Sansa or even Theon on occasion.

Jon had come to her that morning, the morning after his wedding, a morning he should have spent with his new husband, and apologised to her for sending her away. She had accepted his apology, because it was the sort of thing mother and father would have wanted her to do.

And because his sad face was more pitiful that even Rickon’s.

The hug she had attacked him with had been as tight as the one she had given him when they reunited, but with opposite emotions. She was scared, so scared, that she would never see him again. There was a high chance he would die, a high chance that everyone they left behind would die, and she could not dare to hope a red priestess would be able to resurrect him again.

To hope for that would only invite more pain and Arya was tired of pain.

She looked around at the others who were travelling to the Vale, Rickon of course, Lyanna and Robin, Torva and Munda, Gendry. Brienne and Osha as caretakers and protection. No Shireen for her father did not want her to be too far away and her mother refused to go anywhere without the red witch.

Baelish and some of the young lords who had travelled in the hopes of wooing Sansa. The lords who had given up on wooing her deceptively sweet sister.

Some had remained, those who were delusional or full of bravado, those who wanted to face a great battle, those who had not yet learned that life was not a song. Arya envied those men. Arya pitied them.

She nudged her horse so it was alongside the one that Torva and Munda shared, the pair of them looked miserable, although whether it was from the horse or from being apart from their parents Arya could not tell.

“Have you ever seen mountains before?” She asked.

Munda nodded, “We spent some time in the Frost Fangs, my lady. They were very pretty.”

Arya barked a laugh, “Don’t call me ‘my lady’. I thought you didn’t do that anyway with the Free Folk?”

“Mama said it was better to be safe than sorry. That some people would be offended if we didn’t.”

Arya had to admit that there was wisdom in that, “Well don’t call me that. Your da is married to my brother, that makes us family. And you’ll have to tell me all about mountains, I’ve never seen any, neither has Rickon.”

Torva wiggled excitedly and began to tell Arya all about what she might expect, speaking with more enthusiasm than Arya had seen on their journey thus far.

She could do this big sister thing. She had had great role models after all.

* * *

The boat ride was unpleasant, although not in the way that Sansa had described it. Arya was not struck by sea sickness, she found she quite enjoyed the rolling motion of the boat and found the workings of it fascinating.

No, what was unpleasant was the presence of Baelish.

Every time she looked around he was there, a calculating expression on his face as he looked at her, or Rickon, or even Tormund’s daughters. It was worrying, for who knew what he had planned?

Bran had spoken to her before she left, had advised her to try and find out what had happened to Jeyne Poole from Baelish before she did anything against him. Arya may have never particularly liked Jeyne Poole but no one deserved to be under Baelish’s thumb, especially not someone whose only crime had been being friends with Sansa.

She had not mentioned this aim to Sansa, had not wanted to raise her sister’s hopes. Not when there was the chance she would not succeed and Sansa’s hopes would have been raised for nothing.

It was kinder to let her sister think her childhood friend was dead.

Arya had managed to convince Brienne to have a lesson on the deck, no swords but daggers instead, and she had insisted on everyone joining in. if Baelish was going to hurt any of her family or friends then she was going to make it as difficult for him as she could.

Rickon had taken to the dagger with an unholy glee and a wild grin that mirrored the one on the faces of the Free Folk. It seemed that Osha had had a larger influence on him than they might have thought, or maybe he was always going to be a little wilder than the rest of them.

Old Nan had used to say that Rickon looked like Uncle Brandon had when he was a babe, perhaps it wasn’t just his looks that were similar.

Torva and Munda had obviously had training before, but then, their mother was a spearwife, it would be more unusual if they had not had training. Lyanna was the same, she was one of the best for she had shared in Arya’s training at Winterfell in addition to the training her mother and sisters had given her.

Training that was apparently common of Bear Island, and something that Arya was going to suggest to Sansa to be something to be put in place across all her kingdom. She was pretty sure Sansa would support it, she knew there were moments in Sansa’s past that she would have been glad of a knife to defend herself with.

She idly patted the iron coin in her pocket, there were moments when she herself would have been glad of more training, of knowing how to defend herself beyond a few short sword lessons. Of knowing how to use a weapon more versatile and easily hidden than a sword.

Baelish had even watched them as they trained, had looked ever so disdainful of it, Arya supposed he was one of those people who thought that women should not be able to fight back. With the way he looked at Sansa he probably relied on those he laid his affections on being unable to fight back.

Arya was looking forward to killing him, for the way he looked at her sister, for the way he tried to drive a wedge between them all, for the information Bran had given her regarding his part in their father’s death.

Petyr Baelish would die; his lifeblood would stain the stones of the Vale. It was just a matter of time. Just a matter of waiting for him to give her an excuse that could not be questioned.

And when his head was adorning the walls of the Eyrie she would feed his body to Nymeria and Shaggydog.

It would be so satisfying to see all traces of him destroyed by the wolves who he had tried to destroy.

* * *

“You don’t look like my sister.” Lysa Arryn, nee Tully, said to Arya as she exited the ship. “You look more like the Stark girl everyone was obsessed over.”

Arya’s fist clenched at the mention of her aunt, but she forced herself to remain calm. She had promised Sansa and Uncle Brynden that she would not say anything to Aunt Lysa that might jeopardise their alliance.

“You though, you look like my brother did when he was a child.” She turned her gaze onto Rickon, “Are you as much of a buffoon as he?”

Arya put a hand on Rickon’s shoulder to stop him from responding, instead stepping forwards herself, while desperately thinking of what sweet poison her sister might have said in response.

“Thank you for your kind words and gracious welcome, dear aunt.” She said, in the sweet voice she had used to use when trying to wheedle something from her parents, “I’ll be sure to tell Queen Sansa how kind a host you are.”

Her aunt’s eyes widened an Arya felt pride fill her stomach at the sight. She may prefer to use a sword but she could appreciate the power of words as weapons.

“Mother!” Robin ran towards Lysa and was eagerly scooped up in her arms. Lysa’s face softened and for a moment Arya could see the beauty she had been before the bitterness and paranoia took over.

“My Sweet Robin, did you enjoy your trip away? Was it nice to see your cousins and uncles?” Lysa asked in a sickly sweet tone.

Robin nodded eagerly, “I did! Everyone was really nice and Jon showed me how to use a sword!”

Lysa’s face immediately soured, “Jon? Jon Snow? The bastard that caused my sister so much trouble? He dared to approach you?”

Rage bubbled up in Arya, how dare she speak of Jon that way?

“Lady Arryn, I would thank you not to speak of a Prince of the North, and the Hero of the Battle of Winterfell in such a way.” Lyanna said, in that special tone she reserved for adults she thought were particularly stupid.

“And you are?” Lysa looked down her nose at Lyanna.

“Lyanna Mormont. Of Bear Island. I’m one of Princess Arya’s companions.” Lyanna sounded very smug, she knew that her position as one of Arya’s companions meant she could not be relegated to a subpar room for causing Lysa insult.

Arya was still going to chase her around the training yard when she got that chance, Lyanna knew she hated being referred to as a princess.

Lysa huffed and turned her attention to Torva and Munda, she raised an imperious eyebrow at the way they were dressed, their furs so different from the outfits the rest of them wore.

“Does my niece insult me so by sending wildling whelps to my home?”

“Her Grace has sent the heirs to the Dreadfort to safety, Torva and Munda’s father is the Lord of the Dreafort’s consort and they have been named as Prince Jon’s heirs should anything happen to him during the war. They have just as much right to be here as anyone.” Brienne said stiffly, and Arya could have kissed her.

Lysa sniffed and cast yet another glare over them before turning sharply towards the wheelhouse near the docks, Robin still tucked against her side.

“Come along then, if I’m required to host you all then we had best get a move on. It’s a long trip up to the Eyrie and I would so hate to leave any of you behind.”

Somehow Arya got the impression that Lysa did not mean that at all.


	25. Bran

Bran did not know how to feel about being left behind while Arya and Rickon were sent to safety, he had made the argument for why he should stay behind, and yet he was slightly hurt that no one had really fought him over it.

That his uncle had not tried too hard to persuade him otherwise, that his sisters had not tried to deter him with the force he knew they were capable of. His brothers had protested, although for different reasons, Rickon was loathe to be apart from him again, and Jon seemed to want nothing more than to have all his loved ones as far from the Others as he could manage. Bran was sure that if he could have, Jon would have absconded with them all to Dorne or even Essos had honour and duty not bound them to the North. But even they had not done anything but protest.

His thoughts were unfair perhaps, he had after all been the one to argue to remain, had been the one to point out that he needed a Weirwood to see, and that they needed his visions. He still would have liked it if his family had fought a little harder to send him to safety.

He was dragged from his melancholy thoughts by a knock on his door, he was unable get up to physically open the door but he called out for whoever it was to enter.

He was surprised when Oberyn Martell entered his room, he could not think of what the Dornishman might want to speak to him about. They had never really held a conversation, had never had a need to.

“My lord.” Bran inclined his head in greeting.

“Prince Bran,” Prince Oberyn inclined his head in turn, “My apologies for disturbing you, but as you might know, my brother is unwell. There are days he cannot walk, and for those days he has a chair with wheels he uses to travel around in. I asked for the plans for his chair to be sent here, so that one might be built for you.”

Bran could hardly believe his ears, a chair like that would mean he would not have to rely on people carrying him places. It would give him some measure of freedom, a freedom he had thought forever lost.

The prince made some sort of gesture that Bran was too overwhelmed to pay proper attention to, and two servants brought in a high-backed armed chair, carved from ironwood, with two large and two small wheels. A cushion perched on the seat, and the whole thing was carved with wolves, trout and weirwood leaves.

It was the most beautiful thing Bran had ever seen, not just for its craftmanship but for what it represented.

Prince Oberyn walked over to him and held his hands out, “Might I help you into your new chair?”

The words would not come so Bran merely nodded, he allowed himself to be pulled from his seated position into the chair that offered him freedom.

It was comfortable, had the sort of support that meant it wouldn’t be a hardship to sit in for long periods of time. He gingerly tested the wheels, they turned smoothly beneath his hands, and he moved forwards with minimal effort.

“The smith suggested blades for the wheels to help it move through the snow,” Prince Oberyn said, “But with those you would have to have someone push you, or perhaps get your direwolf to pull you.”

Bran grinned at the image that produced in his mind, at the image of him being pulled around Winterfell by Summer. It was a good image.

“Thank you, Prince Oberyn.” Bran said with all the heartfelt sincerity he could muster, “This means more than you could possibly imagine.”

Prince Oberyn smiled, “You are more than welcome. Now, would you like to test it outside?”

* * *

_There was a cold wind beneath his wings, bitter in a way that spoke of snows and ice falling from the sky. That spoke of a cold so fierce it would freeze anything without a shelter. _

_His form, his host, wanted to fly away from the oncoming storm, from the swirling clouds and biter winds that spoke of death, but he would not let it. He needed to _know.

_He flew over a great host, pale and cold and stinking of death, stretching as far as the eye could see. If he was not mistaken the host could have spread threefold from coast to coast it was so large. And yet he had the feeling that it could have been much worse. _

_Had the Free Folk not travelled through the Wall the host would have been far more formidable. _

_He scanned the forces below him, trying to determine the amount of weaponry they possessed and the amount of armour that still clung to the corpses. If they were lucky then the majority of the undead would be unarmed, would only be fighting with their teeth and nails. _

_It was easier to defend against teeth than it was to defend against iron. _

_And metal was harder to burn than leather or fur. _

_He looked to see how many of the Others there were as well, for if what the Free Folk said was true, there was no use to taking out the wights, only in taking out the Others. If one of the Others fell, then so did the wights they had raised. _

_The Others were easy to pick out, blue and cold and pale, no rotting fors surrounding them, but cool leathers and tarnished metals that gave off an aura of age. There were hundreds of them, each one with eyes the bright blue of the thickest ice._

_One of the Others; one with ice around his head that almost formed a crown, one with dead weirwood leaves that were shrivelled and brown and _wrong _wrapped around the ice; looked up at him with eyes he could feel the ice of ever from his great distance. _

_They seemed to pierce into his soul, as sharp as glass and cold as the deepest, darkest days of winter. They made him flinch, as though he could escape the cold and the malice directed his way. _

_He saw the other raise an arm, a spear in his hand, and watched as it soared through the air towards him with no time to react and then-_

_A pain lanced through his breast and he- _

_He-_

_F_

_E_

_L_

_L_

Bran’s jolted awake, pain in his chest, and the sense that he had just fallen. Somehow the leader of the Others had known he was watching them. Had known he was inside the bird, and had tried to kill him.

Somehow Bran knew that if he had been inside the bird when it had died, he too would be dead. that it was only luck and his bond with Summer that he was not.

He would need to be even more careful the next time he looked to see what the enemy was doing, lest he lose his life and they lose the only advantage they had.

* * *

Bran found himself with little to do in the time after Rickon and Arya left Winterfell, his lessons had mostly stopped as the Maester was needed elsewhere and, well, everyone else was busy, the first of the Lannister troops had arrived at Eastwatch and Uncle Brynden had travelled there with the Greatjon to show them where they would be making camp, to show them the part of the Wall they would be defending.

Sansa was busy organising everything from supply chains to healers for their armies, and entertaining all of their troops and lords from the Riverlands who stopped at Winterfell on their march North. She looked harried every time that Bran saw her and he had no desire to add to her workload with his feelings of loneliness.

Jon was also away, he was coordinating their troops who were fighting alongside the Nights Watch at Castle Black, a decision that none of them had liked. Bran prayed every day that he came home from that castle, safe and whole. He did not pray that his brother would come home unwounded, for that was unrealistic, and if there was anything that he had learnt since King Robert had come to Winterfell it was to be realistic.

Theon joined him occasionally, but they had an awkward silence between them, Bran could not forget that the person he had thought of as his brother had taken his home from him, and Theon’s eyes were full of guilt whenever he looked at Bran as though he could not forget the same thing.

He pushed his chair around the courtyard instead, watching as preparations occurred and savouring his new found freedom of movement. Summer never left his side, acting as a way to ward off those who might have approached him when he was deep in thought or his day dreams.

Meera tried on occasion to teach him how to shoot, but the lessons never went well. The bows were the wrong size for him to use and he had no desire to take up the time of someone who could be doing something more valuable to make him one.

No, instead he just watched the world go by and listened to the comforting and colourful commentary of Jojen. There would be a use for him in the coming days, it just had not yet arrived.

* * *

_He did not recognise the land below him, did not recognise the colours of the banners or the clothing that was worn. He did not recognise the stone the buildings were made of, nor the scents of spices in the air, nor the languages that reached his ears. _

_It was all so unfamiliar that he knew he must be in Essos. Must be across the Narrow Sea and far from Winterfell. _

_His eye caught on a sigil that was near as familiar as the direwolf his family, the black bear of the Mormonts. A bear emblazoned on the chest of a wiry looking man, a bear which had no place in Essos. _

_By the man’s side was another person he did not expect to see. The Imp, a man he knew Sansa had men looking for, was walking through the streets in clothing that stood out for its Westerosi style. The two appeared to be talking amicably and seemed uncaring of the starving children surrounding them or the acrid tang of smoke that still clung to the air. _

_It was obvious, now that he looked, that some great attack had recently occurred on the city, the number of flies alone attested for the death that must have occurred, for the corpses that must have been piled up. _

_It was strange as well, for even children dressed in silks and fine linens were begging on the streets with hollow cheeks, desperate for even a scrap of food. _

_He decided to follow the Mormont and the Imp to find out what had happened in this city, and if the events that had occurred might affect Westeros. _

_“… She’s missing. Flew off on her dragon. No one has seen her since, there’s been talk of revolution in the lower city.” The Mormont said in a low voice. _

_“Hmmm, well we know she’ll be back, she wants the damned Iron Throne too much to not return. Maybe she’s trying to come up with a plan for her next move?” _

_“She’ll be up against the Blackfish, Connington and your father, she’ll need a bloody good plan if she wants to win against them all and still have land to rule over.”_

_Mormont spat, “Bah, she only needs to take out Tully and the North will fall into line. Their ruler is a weak girl, she’ll bow before Queen Daenerys easily enough. As for Connington, he’s supporting a false Targaryen, I doubt anyone will be sad to see them go.” _

_“And my father is old and hated by almost everyone,” The Imp said wryly, “Yes, when you put it like that she has little to worry about. What we’ll need to worry about is stopping her from burning everything in her path, but she is young and can be reasoned with.”_

_Bran had heard enough, the Dragon Queen was planning on returning to Westeros, to claim what she thought of as her birth right. He cast another glance over the destroyed city full of starving people, if that was what she brought with her when she tried to rule then maybe the kingdoms would join together once more to repel a threat._

_Especially a threat who seemed to take their House words of ‘Fire and Blood’ as guidance rather than a statement. _


	26. Jon

Jon had been back and forth between Winterfell and Castle Black with such regularity that he was tempted to just tie his bedroll to his horse and sleep on it instead.

Well, that was a lie, what he wanted more than anything was to curl up in bed and sleep for a week wrapped up in Tormund’s arms, but that chances of that happening were about as likely as Arya declaring she wished to learn how to play the High Harp.

He had been called back to report on the state of their armies at the Wall and to greet the Targaryen troops who were to take up post on the western half of the Wall. They had met with all of the leaders of the factions, to foster the trust that would be needed to pass reliable information in the war for humanity. It was a memory that Jon would forever treasure, that of Tywin Lannister meeting Mance Rayder, the Great Lion meeting the King Beyond-the-Wall was exactly as humorous as he would have imagined and a memory that kept him warm even in the bitter cold.

It had been decided that it was in everyone’s best interests to not host the Lannisters at Winterfell as they were trying to limit the bloodshed before the battles as much as they could. But the Targaryens would be hosted there for a brief while, a decision Jon knew had been factored in for him, a chance for him to meet the king whose blood he shared, and for the king to meet the child his father had had with another woman while leaving him to die.

It was a meeting that Jon was dreading.

A welcome sight greeted him as he rode into Winterfell, a shock of red hair that towered above all others, a shade that only belonged to one person he knew.

“My Pretty Crow!”

Jon was all but knocked off his feet as Tormund barrelled into him the moment he dismounted. He was wrapped up in strong arms that made him relax in a way that only Tormund could do now his siblings were away from Winterfell and they were on the brink of war.

He did not say anything, just burrowed his face into Tormund’s neck, uncaring of the looks it gained him from the soldiers who were new to Winterfell.

“I’ve asked for a bath to be prepared for you in our rooms,” Tormund said softly, “Lets go get you clean and changed so you feel slightly more human when it comes time to deal with the inevitable shit show later.”

His husband had such a way with words, it made Jon smile despite the weariness. He nodded into Tormund’s neck and allowed himself to be manoeuvred up to their rooms in the family wing, not even attempting to hide his delighted shiver at the warmth of the castle.

Ghost raised his head from where he was napping by the fire in their rooms, but other than a few thumps of his tail he made no other move to greet Jon. Jon supposed he was still sulking from being left behind while Jon made his trip to Castle Black.

A wooden tub of steaming water awaited him, and it was perhaps one of the most glorious things he had ever seen. The thought of soaking his aching muscles in the hot water was one of the nicest he had had in a while, made even nicer by the fact that it might finally make him warm all the way through.

Winter had truly come in the North, and with it had come bitter winds that cut to the bone with an icy precision and snow flurries that buried anything without shelter.

He sank into the water with a low groan that made Tormund laugh and comment about dragging noises like that out of him again later on, but Jon did not pay him much attention.

He vaguely noticed Tormund leaving the room, but was too blissed by the heat for it to really register in his mind, he reluctantly reached for the soap, ignoring the vials of oils that Sansa was trying to get him to try, he had no great desire to smell like pine needles or lemons, no matter how pleasant the vials smelled.

The door opened again once the water had started to cool, and he turned his head to see Tormund entering, a plate in his hands.

“Lets get you out of the water before you become a fish,” Tormund said, running a broad hand over Jon’s hair, “And then you can eat the food I pestered the kitchens into giving us.”

“My knight in shining armour.” Jon grinned at him, flicking water to punctuate his words.

Tormund let out a little growl and carefully set the food down before pouncing at him. He hauled Jon out of the water and flung him over his shoulder, uncaring that Jon was wet. He flung him down on the bed and wrapped him up in the furs, like one would wrap a babe.

“Too damned cheeky for yer own good.” He muttered, following each word with a kiss to Jon’s face. “One day it’ll get you in trouble.”

He finished his miniature rant with a kiss pressed to the tip of Jon’s nose and then grabbed the food. He held a morsel of it up to Jon’s lips with a stern glare, leaving on no option but to take the food from him.

“Yer going to eat yer food, little crow, and the yer going to sleep, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you. Got it?” Tormund all but growled.

Jon couldn’t resist one last dig at his husband.

“How am I supposed to answer if you don’t want me to speak?”

The glare Tormund shot him made him submit to being cared for by his overprotective husband, and, although he would not admit it out loud, he basked in the feeling of being loved.

* * *

The Great Hall was fuller than it would be for a long while, lords from the North, the Vale and the Riverlands gathered to see the Targaryen who had returned to their shores after so long.

“Queen Sansa, it is an honour to meet you again.” The man accompanying the Targaryen bowed, a strange, knowing smile on his face as he looked around at the Northern Court.

“Lord Connington, the honour is returned.” Sansa said, her voice low and regal, “If it might ask though, where is King Aegon? I was under the impression he was travelling with you.”

Lord Connington ran a hand through his hair and smiled guiltily, “He is still outside, Your Grace, looking at the snow. He’s never seen it before and had become rather entranced.”

There as something almost sweet about the image that conjured, and it helped Jon’s nerves settle a little. He was so very anxious about meeting his brother, and the thought of him being excited by the snow soothed something inside him.

The door creaked open and a figure with hair as blue as the Tully banners entered the Hall.

“Apologies for my lateness, Queen Sansa.” He bowed, “I was overcome by how beautiful your lands are, I have not seen anything quite like them in all my travels.”

His flattery caused no small number of the lords to smile, pleased with the compliment offered to their lands.

“It is no trouble, King Aegon.” Sansa smiled, “And I thank you for your kind words. I trust your journey was not too hard?”

The Targaryen opened his mouth as if to reply when-

“Fuck me I knew you looked familiar.” The dulcet tones of Jaime Lannister rang loud and clear through Winterfell’s Great Hall. “Fucking Ned Stark tricked us all. That sneaky piece of fucking shit.”

Silence followed his words, and then an outpouring of confusion and insult.

Jon supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised, he could see that there were similarities between himself and Aegon, and Ser Jaime was one of the few people left who had actually know Rhaegar Targaryen.

“Have care of how you speak, Ser Jaime.” Sansa said, her voice cutting through the noise his words had caused. “I will not tolerate such foul language or disrespect of my father in my Hall.”

Ser Jaime bowed his head, “My apologies, Your Grace, but I stand by my words. Your father managed to trick all of us for over a decade. He hid a Targaryen right under Robert Baratheon’s nose!”

If Jon had thought there had been an uproar before at Ser Jaime’s words it paled in comparison to the one that now graced the hall. Accusations and denials were flung around by every lord in attendance, and even the Tullys looked shocked.

“Silence, my lords.” Sansa’s voice was like ice, like her lady mother’s, cutting through the noise and leaving a disappointment tinged quiet in its wake.

“Is it true Your Grace?” Lord Glover sounded close to tears, “Did your father really hide a Targaryen among us?”

Jon moved closer to Tormund, wanting the security of his husband at his side and the comfort of his hand on his waist. He knew the fallout from this revelation would be spectacular, but he did not know in which way it would fall.

“I can confirm this, Lord Glover.” Lord Reed said, sending Jon and apologetic glance, “I was there when Ned Stark entered the Tower of Joy where his sister was held and emerged with her dead body and a babe in his arms.”

“My father loved his sister.” Sansa said, “He loved her enough to keep the last part of her safe, even knowing that had his best friend have found out he would have been executed as a traitor. The North remembers, my lords, not just its insults, but its love as well. And every act of my father’s was done out of the love he bore for his family.”

Jon absently wondered just how long Sansa had practised that speech, how carefully she had crafted it to appeal to the lords and calm their tempers.

“And I will say this to you, my lords.” Sansa continued, directing a soft smile towards Jon, “No matter his birth parents, Jon Stark is my brother and a Stark. He is a prince of the North, and anyone who treats him differently with this knowledge will face my displeasure.”

“Have I ever told you that your sister is fucking terrifying, Pretty Crow?” Tormund whispered in his ear with complete sincerity in his voice.

Jon had to resist the urge to let out an inappropriate snort at that, and then resist the urge to let out a little moan as Tormund softly kissed the skin behind his ear.

“Would it be a great imposition to ask for some privacy so that I might meet my little brother, Queen Sansa?” The Targaryen asked, his tone respectful even as Jon could feel his gaze upon him.

Jon locked his eyes onto his sister’s with desperation, he did not want to meet the one who claimed to be his brother alone. He thought he was prepared for the eventuality, but when it came to it, he was not.

“Very well, King Aegon.” Sansa proclaimed, she let her gaze roam around the Hall, meeting each lord’s eyes in turn. “My lords, we shall reconvene at a later time, when we are not distracted from our plans. I am sure you will not begrudge such an innocent favour for our allies.”

There was something awe inspiring about watching the masterful way Sansa interacted with the lords, in the way she was able to play them so well. They all filed out of the room, with nary a complaint, until it was just a few people left in the cavernous hall.

Brynden looked between him, Sansa, and Targaryen with heavy eyes filled with an emotion that Jon could not place.

“I would suggest we take this to your solar,” He said to Sansa, “If Lord Connington and his charge have spent much time in Essos then they will be struggling with the cold.”

Jon was almost absurdly grateful for Brynden cutting through the silence and for giving them somewhere slightly more private to go for what was surely to be an awkward encounter.

He tucked himself further into Tormund’s side as they walked up to the main solar, relying on the comfort of his husband to not run from the conversation before him. He resolutely ignored the curious looks sent his way by Connington and Targaryen, and the comforting ones Sansa sent to him, he did not need coddling by his little sister nor was he something to gawk at.

This was his home and he could not be frightened here.

* * *

“Before anything else, I would like to offer you the same apologies I did to your sister.” Targaryen stepped forwards and looked Jon directly in the eye, “I would like to apologise on behalf of House Targaryen for the abduction of Lyanna Stark and the deaths of Rickard and Brandon Stark.”

That was not something Jon had expected. He knew that Sansa had been offered apologies, but he had not thought they would be offered to him as well. The lessons on courtesy that Lady Catelyn had drummed into his head sprung forth as he floundered for what else to say.

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Jon said, he ducked his head slightly and wished that Tormund was still holding him so he could steal some of his unshakable confidence for his own.

“Aegon. You should call me Aegon, had the world been a little kinder than we would have grown up together and I would not have my brother call me by an honorific.” Targaryen – Aegon, looked like he wished to reach out to Jon but stopped himself and instead turned to Brynden, “Lord Brynden, I must thank you for the care you have offered to my brother and his siblings, it is my understanding that without your help my brother would still be at the Wall and the Queen would likely still be under the Lannisters’ thumbs. If there is any way I can repay you for these actions then you need only ask.”

“Your words are kind, Your Grace, but I only did what was right.” Brynden said with a quiet strength, “As Lord Connington did with you, I too could not leave the children of one I loved at the mercy of the world.”

The quiet of the room following that statement was only broken by the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rattle of the wind against the window.

Jon looked at Tormund for strength to speak and then turned to Aegon, “I will never claim the name Targaryen, I have been legitimised as a Stark and a Stark I will remain, but,” He took a deep breath, “It would be nice to have another brother.”

Aegon smiled a smile that Jon had seen on Oberyn’s face and he leapt forwards to pull Jon into a hug, a hug that Jon accepted stiffly, feeling awkward for accepting affection from someone he did not know.

“Thank you Jon.” Aegon said in a suspiciously watery voice, “Now would you be willing to introduce me to you husband perhaps?”

Well the interactions between Aegon and Tormund promised to be entertaining at the very least.

* * *

Jon went to find Bran, he was heading for the Wall again soon, and he had the suspicion that he would not be returning to Winterfell before the war for the living was over. He needed to say goodbye properly to his younger brother, in case the worst happened.

“Aim for the one with weirwood leave on his head, I don’t know why, but he is important.” Bran said as he approached.

His brother was in his new chair (and how Jon could have kissed Oberyn when he found that he had been the one to gift Bran such a thing) underneath the largest of the weirwood trees in the Godswood, one which looked as though the tears running from the face carved into it were fresh.

“Did you see that?” He asked, as he leaned to embrace Bran.

“Yes, I think the one with the circlet of dead leaves is the leader. The one with the most intelligence. If you take that one out then you should find it easier to win.” Bran sounded absent, not at all like the child he was.

“Well then I will bring you his head as a gift if you desire.” Jon said, only half joking, “But for now, I want a hug as I might not see you again for a while.”

Bran blinked and looked at him with big eyes, suddenly a child once more, “You’re coming back though, right?”

Jon squeezed him tight, “I will do all in my power to return to you, little brother, but until I do yu need to be good and listen to Sansa. No trying to make up for the lack of Arya and Rickon by causing chaos now, alright?”

His little brother smiled weakly, “I promise. If I don’t know if something s a good idea I’ll ask myself if its something you would do, and if it is then I will do the opposite.”

Jon grinned and ruffled Bran’s hair, “I’ll have you know that at least half of those ideas were Robb’s.”


	27. Sansa

Sansa had expected the interrogation she was receiving; she had even sent Jon away so he would not have to hear the accusations that were thrown around. But that did not make it any easier to bear. Did not make the hurt in her uncles’ eyes any easier to bear.

“Were you ever going to tell us, Your Grace.” Brynden said stiffly and Sansa wanted to do nothing more than hug him and beg for his forgiveness for hurting his pride by keeping such a secret.

But she could not, not in front of the rest of the lords, not when it had not been her secret to tell.

“As the information would not have changed anything it is unlikely I would have made it public knowledge.” Sansa said, “My brother was raised a Stark, a Stark he will remain.”

She hardened her voice, in the hopes that it would forestall any questions. Unfortunately she wasn’t so lucky.

“How do you know he won’t try and claim the Iron Throne?” Lord Hardying called out, his voice rising above all the others.

“Because, my lords, when I first told my brother about his heritage I offered to seat him on the throne and make him ruler of the Southern kingdoms and he told me that if I so much as tried he would head Beyond the Wall never to return. All he wants is to protect his family and the cause our brother died for.”

It was, perhaps, a low blow to bring Robb up, but the lords needed to understand that Jon had no desire to rule, that the reveal of his heritage did not change anything.

“And what if he turns out like his grandfather? What if he becomes like the mad king?” Lord Hardying’s golden son said, an arrogant twist to his mouth.

“Well for one he does not have the power required to become as bad as the mad king ever was, and well, do you really think Eddard Stark would have raised an egotistical megalomaniac?” Brynden said, defending them even though Sansa knew he was hurt he had not been told.

It was impressive how quickly her father’s name quenched the lords’ anger. Impressive and just a little disconcerting.

“My lords, arguing will solve nothing, not now, not when we should be focused on the war at the Wall.” Sansa tried, hoping some of the lords would see reason, “As it stands my brother should continue to be treated with the respect that is his due as Lord of the Dreadfort and a Prince of the Winter Kingdoms.”

“Aye, my niece is right,” Her Uncle Edmure spoke up when the River Lords did not quiet, “We should be more focused on the undead coming for us than a child raised by Ned Stark.”

His words made the last of the grumbles disappear, as the united front he represented threw off those who were seeking a power struggle and divided family.

Not that there were many of those left, what with Baelish being back in the Vale.

“Well then, my lords, if you are quite finished with your upset, I would have us o over the plans one last time before your departure.” Sansa said, stalking over to the table that held their maps, “I would be assured that everyone is aware of what is to happen, to keep our tenuous peace with both Lannister and Targaryen.”

* * *

It was strange to think that before the Lannisters, before Joffrey and his destruction of her belief in the sweetest of songs, Sansa would have fancied herself in love with Aegon Targaryen.

She would have been overjoyed by the gifts he presented her with, the delicate golden hairnet, the amber pendent, the length of lace. But they just felt hollow, felt too much like the gifts she had received in Kings Landing when Joffrey had wanted her to look pretty for him despite the bruises.

Besides, what use did she have for golden hairnets or flashy jewels? They would only look gaudy against the iron and bronze of her crown, and she had no need of them to advertise her status the way that Southern monarchs did.

She was not stupid, she knew why he was attempting to court her. And it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her kingdoms.

Aegon Targaryen had travelled to Westeros to rule over the Seven Kingdoms, not to rule over a continent split in two. He wished to marry her to reunify the kingdoms without bloodshed that would turn the last of his family against him.

Politically speaking, it was a sound move, one she might even have considered for the good of her people had the circumstances been different. But her people had sworn to never again bow before the Iron Throne, to never be governed by one who did not bear the name Stark, and she had to respect their choice.

If they still needed the alliance when Rickon was old enough to rule then she would step down to make it, but a selfish twist of her heart hoped such a thing would not be necessary.

She did not want her safety and happiness to rely on another’s good will ever again. Did not want to be at the mercy of another’s whims. She knew all to well what could happen when favour was lost and charm soured.

“Queen Sansa,” King Aegon bowed with a courtly flourish, “Could I perhaps escort you on a turn around the Godswood? I have heard so much about it.”

Sansa did not want to, she knew it was a ploy to get her away from watching eyes, although the reason for this was uncertain. At the very best he was sincere in wishing to see the woods, at the worst he would dishonour her to trap her in a marriage.

And she could not risk being trapped into a marriage with a contender for the Iron Throne, not when the political situation was already so tense. Not when they needed all their attention focused on the war against the Others.

She was trying to think of some reason to refuse, some reason polite enough it would not cause offense, when a most unexpected saviour appeared.

“Apologies, but the queen and I already had an appointment.” Lady Greyjoy swept in and tucked Sansa’s hand into the crook of her arm.

Aegon Targaryen’s face fell, but he was not so cocksure as to challenge the obviously heavily armed Ironborn.

“Of course, perhaps some other time Queen Sansa.” He bowed once more, again with an unnecessary flourish, and stalked away with his pride wounded.

“Thank you, my lady.” Sansa offered quietly so as not to be overheard.

Lady Asha spat to one side, “No need for thanks, had my mother known I had stood by and watched a girl of three-and-ten be lusted over she would have tanned my hide as quick as could be. Especially as your usual guard dogs are gone. I have been meaning to ask you for a meeting though, regarding my baby brother and the Iron Islands.”

Sansa smiled and kept her hand tucked in Lady Asha’s elbow as she started to steer her towards the castle and her solar.

“Of course, I have been expecting you to request one. You wish to take the role as Queen of the Iron Islands if I am not mistaken? And you would like my help to remove the uncle who has taken your claim.”

Lady Asha looked at her with a raised eyebrow and Sansa smirked delicately as she closed the door of her solar.

“Lord Varys has his little birds, and Lord Baelish has his whores, I have my sister and her bards.” Sansa offered as an explanation.

“I would guess she is the reason songs about the Starks are suddenly so popular, even on the islands.” Lady Asha laughed, before suddenly turning serious. “I also wanted to thank you for what you’ve done for my brother. From what I have heard, he was in bad shape when you found him, and you and your family made sure he was cared for despite everything he had done.”

Sansa had not expected that, she poured them both a glass of sweet watered wine to stall for time as she thought of how to reply.

“Do you know, I don’t remember a time at Winterfell without Theon? As a child he was always as much of a brother as the ones I share blood with, he irritated me, but no more than any of my other siblings did.”

“He always was an irritating little shit.” Lady Asha agreed, “But somehow still likable. What plans do you have for him?”

“Theon will always have a place here if he wants it, and if he doesn’t then he will always have a friendship with House Stark.” Sansa did not know what exactly Lady Asha was fishing for.

“And if our uncle attacks the North? What then?”

“Then I will have an easier time convincing my lords to help you regain the Salt Throne.” Sansa replied simply, she was not ashamed to admit she enjoyed the bafflement that overtook Lady Asha’s face at her words.

“You would not be treating us as hostages for our uncle’s good behaviour? You would help us? Why would you do such a thing?”

Sansa took a long sip of her wine, “You will not be hostages, not when your uncle would disregard it anyway. And as for why? For the love shared between my brother and yours, and to ensure good relations between our kingdoms.”

She figured honesty would get her further with Asha Greyjoy than flattery.

“I would have you reclaim your birth right, in the hopes of stopping the tension between our people, and forming an alliance against those who would subjugate us once more.” Sansa continued, looking Lady Asha directly in the eye to convey how serious she was. “My people will never again bow to the Iron Throne, and I know that your people do not wish to either.”

A vicious grin, such of the type Arya often wore, split Lady Asha’s face, “I think that those who underestimated you will soon come to regret it, Your Grace. You would make a good Ironborn.”

Sansa would have taken offense at that little more than a few months before, but she now understood it for the compliment it was meant to be.

“I do not have the taste for blood of your Islands, my lady,” Sansa demurred, “But I thank you for the compliment all the same.”

“You chirp your courtesies, like a well trained pet, but you can’t quite hide your claws, I think if you let yourself you could be quite blood thirsty indeed.” Lady Asha smirked.

Sansa did not want to admit how true the Lady’s words were, she had felt the urge in her when she heard of what Snow had done to her brother, when she had heard Roose Bolton’s words about her mother, when she had seen the fear in the eyes of her subjects rescued from the Dreadfort. When Joffrey had shown her father’s head and she had thought of throwing him from the walls.

She could be just as blood thirsty as the rest of her siblings, the rest of her pack, but she did not let it show.

She did not want to let it show.

“Well, my lady? Do you take my offer?” Sansa said instead of any of the thoughts racing around her head.

Lady Asha held out her hand, “I think I do, Queen Sansa.”

Sansa shook the proffered hand, “Then, Queen Asha, let us toast to a glorious partnership.”

* * *

Sansa would not be accompanying their armies to the wall, that was something that had never been in question.

She would however, see them off with a display of pageantry that would soothe the fears of the small folk and embolden the men somewhat.

Every detail had been though out with precision, the Dias outside Winterfell built, the flowers to be thrown collected, and the kerchief she would be giving to her uncle prepared and embroidered to convey her favour.

It was not the full army of course, many of her men were already at the Wall under the command of Jon, but this was the rest of them, and she would not be surprised if a tapestry was made of this moment.

She left her hair unbound and unbraided, so it fell in a river of fire down to her waist, her crown perched atop her head its only adornment.

The gown she wore was the one she had worn for the negotiations at Harrenhal, it was a little light for the cold of the North but the symbolism it contained for far too great for her to wear another. She wore no cloak that would hide her gestures and shivered despite the second chemise she had worn under her gown.

It sickened her slightly, to have such a display, to have a celebration, when she knew that so many would not return. When so many would lose family and friends.

But it was necessary, it was her duty.

She stood there, in the biting wind, her hair flying behind her, banners at her back. Her gaze ran over the men before her, armoured and ready to fight, their shining breastplates coated with leather to protect them from the cold and each one sported a cloak in Stark grey, Tully red, or Arryn blue.

Her uncle approached her, wearing armour she knew to be ceremonial for the way the light glinted off the black metal, his Hand’s pin holding his cloak in place.

“Your Grace,” He knelt before her, his sword held out to her like an offering, “I offer you this sword to bless, to allow to guard your realms and your people.”

Sansa placed a hand on the cold blade and spoke the ceremonial words.

“May your sword be swift and your blade be sharp, may the gods guide your blows as you defend these lands and their people.” She took out the handkerchief that she had prepared, “I offer you this token, so that all may know you fight in my name, to uphold my justice and protect my people.”

Brynden stood and bowed and tied the handkerchief around the hilt of his sword.

“It will be my greatest honour, Your Grace.”

Sansa broke protocol for the briefest moment, “Stay safe uncle, and return to me.”

Her uncle bowed once again but made no promises. He could not promise such a thing.

Sansa steeled her spine and ran her gaze across the crowd.

“My loving and loyal people, men of the North, men of the Vale, men of the Riverlands, I stand before you today on the eve of a great war, the Great War. Each man before me is as brave and true as any man can be, each one going forth to fight to protect the whole of Westeros, to protect the future of man. Some of you may be afeared, but I say to you the words of my father: There is no shame in fear, for the only time a man can be truly brave is when he is afraid.” Sansa took a deep breath and raised her voice until she was all but shouting, “And when the dawn comes again, and a red sun rises upon your victory, you shall be hailed as the heroes of our time, your deeds sung about for centuries to come. Go forth, my people, and know that I pray for your return and for a swift victory!”

A moment of silence followed her words and then a cacophony of sound broke out among her men,

“THE QUEEN OF WINTER! THE QUEEN OF WINTER! THE QUEEN OF WINTER!”


	28. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this will probably be the last chapter until the New Year as I am home for the holidays and have little time to write. I hope everyone has a very nice time over the holidays and enjoys the last couple of weeks of the decade!

The journey to the Eyrie was longer than Arya had expected it would be, on the maps the trip from the Fingers to the Eyrie looked like it would take a day at most, but in reality it was taking them near to a week as they intermittently needed to exchange their horses and carriages for mules and pulley systems.

They did not camp on the mountain side, there were enough inns and stop houses that they did not need to. It seemed that there were more inns in the Vale then there were anywhere else in Westeros, except perhaps Kings Landing.

It was not surprising, she doubted anyone would wish to camp in a place where the winds never stopped howling and often brought with them sheets of freezing sleet or rain.

The downside of them all sleeping in inns was that when they partook of their evening meals Littlefinger ended up eating with them. He was slimy, his words to Aunt Lysa honeyed and yet Arya knew them to be false, for he had said the same things to Sansa. But Aunt Lysa lapped them up, a lovesick look on her face whenever she gazed upon Baelish.

It was rather disturbing to witness, in all honesty.

The only bright side was that Robin did not seem to like Baelish very much, not after he had made some comment about Jon and Brynden in front of him. Robin liked the two of them, for they did not speak down to him and treated him as they treated everyone else despite his sickness.

Rickon seemed to get rather antsy as they travelled, the constant travelling and lack of time to play wearing on him greatly, just as much as the company had. He made his dislike for their aunt quite clear, as she criticised both him and Shaggydog and their general attire and state of muddiness. Osha had been a godsend dealing with his moods, she was quite good at entertaining him with a story or song, or a finger game that they played Beyond the Wall.

It was enough to keep him from causing chaos at least. Or, if not prevent complete chaos, then at least minimised it somewhat.

Not that some of the lords accompanying them minded much, a number of them thought that Rickon was rather sweet. It meant that they laughed when he was petulant or mischievous rather than angry. Arya thought that perhaps he reminded them of their sons or grandsons who were fighting at the Wall.

She herself was pleased that she had Gendry and Lyanna there, they stopped her from going crazy with boredom, as she was sure she would with only her aunt for company.

Arya could hardly wait until they reached the Eyrie and the opportunity for space and privacy it would grant them. The sooner she could shut a door firmly between herself and the rest of her companions, the better.

* * *

“Baby brother!”

There was barely a moment of quiet before the call rang out through the mountain and Gendry found himself wrapped up in the arms of a short, stocky girl with close cropped black hair.

Arya could not hold in her laughter at the shocked expression on his face, and felt that in some respects it was rightfully deserved, he had laughed at her when she reunited with Nymeria.

“I’m sorry, milady, but who are you?” Gendry asked stiffly when he finally managed to extract himself from the girl’s arms.

The girl laughed, her blue eyes flashing with cheer and she did not seem to be offended by his words.

“I am no lady, my name is Mya Stone, and if I am not mistaken, we share a father. Along with numerous others in Wetseros!”

Arya suddenly realised why the girl, why Mya Stone, looked so familiar: she had the look of Shireen, the same eyes and what would likely be the same thick dark curls if she let her hair grow.

“You have Baratheon blood.” Arya blurted out, her shock too great to contain.

“Aye, my lady.” Mya Stone said with a cheerful grin, “The late King Robert fathered me when he was fostering at the Eyrie. What about you brother? Which part of Westeros do you hail from?”

Gendry’s shoulders remained stiff and his bearing remained uneasy, “Kings Landing.”

“Ahh a Waters then. I had hoped you might be a Snow, for them we would complete the set. But no matter, now, lets sort you all out with a mule for the final leg of your journey. Unless you would prefer to use the pulley with Lady Arryn?”

Arya did not have any particular desire to ride any longer, but she had even less of a desire to be stuck in a pulley with her aunt. And from the look on Gendry and Lyanna’s faces they agreed with her.

And from the pout on Rickon’s face, her own baby brother was very much put out that he was too small to be safe riding mules up to the Eyrie, that he would be stuck with their aunt.

“I have just the mule for you my lady,” Mya said, as she led Arya to one with a soft grey coat and grey eyes, “This one here is called Ned, named for the man who ensured I was cared for in his friend’s place. I’m sorry for your loss, your father was a kind man.”

Arya blinked back tears that threatened to fall, she could see why the mule wold be named so, his coat was almost exactly the shade of grey that adorned the Stark banners.

“Thank you.” She breathed.

Mya shrugged, “It is no trouble, your mother was kind as well when she visited. If you like I could tell you some stories I have heard of your father’s time here on the ride up?”

Arya nodded eagerly, her father had never really told them of his time in the Vale, she suspected that his memories were tainted by the war that had come after them, but she had always been curious.

Before her journey she had never ridden a mule before, had found the shorter creature and difference in swaying made her quite queasy. But now, there was a strange sort of comfort in it, in the sure footedness and gentle pace of the creatures.

They set off at a slow pace, and Arya eagerly listened to the tales Mya told her, of the stories of the mischief her father had done while he was a boy that the Vale lords remembered fondly. They reminded her a lot of the things her brothers had done at Winterfell and so, despite the newness of the detail, they felt like they had a sort of familiarity to them.

The clouds parted before them and the Eyrie appeared up ahead, its walls glinting slightly in the weak sunlight as it perched upon the mountain top like the nest it was named for.

She clung to Ned’s reins and looked up at the imposing fortress that was to be her home for as long as it took for her uncle to deem it safe for her to return home. With it’s high stone walls, multitude of arrow slits and the dangerous trek up to it, she could see why Brynden had deemed it a safe place for her and Rickon.

It had taken a dragon for it to fall before, and there really was no place safer in Westeros, from external threat at least.

* * *

Arya swung her sword around in the final movement of the sequence Brienne had instructed her to do and then held position, her breathing heavy, until Brienne told her to stop. She was so relieved that Brienne had been sent with her, so relieved that she would not need to put her training on hold while she was sent away. So relieved that she had an escape from the company of her aunt.

Her aunt was not cruel, but she was unkind. Her words were cutting and it did hurt to hear such bile spewed from a mouth set in a face so very like her mother’s. Arya focused on the differences between them in order to not go mad, but they did not stop the resurgence of the nightmares about Lady Stoneheart and the Red Wedding.

Nymeria rushed into the yard, followed by a loudly yapping Mors, breaking the quiet of the training and prompting exclamations of surprise (and a little fear) from some of the guards. Her wolf had grown once again, and now stood shoulder to shoulder with Arya, it was no wonder really that she prompted fear from those who beheld her.

Not when tales of Robb and Greywind, or Sansa’s army of direwolves helping break the siege on Riverrun still were told all over Westeros, but especially in the kingdoms that Sansa ruled over.

She ginned as Rickon and Shaggydog soon followed after Nymeria and Mors, Osha following behind at a more sedate pace with an indulgent smile on her face and Munda and Torva clinging to her hands.

“Arya! Arya!” Rickon squealed, running over to her and bouncing in place, “Osha said she’s going to teach me and Munda and Torva how to use a knife to get rid of bad men. She said we might need it one day, can you watch?”

Arya smiled down at her baby brother, “Of course I will Rickon, and its ‘Munda, Torva and I’ not ‘me and Munda and Torva’.”

Rickon’s nose wrinkled, “You sound like Sansa. Or Shireen.”

A grimace crossed her face at that thought, she loved her sister but she had no desire to start sounding like Sansa!

“You take that back!”

She lunged for him, with the intention of tickling him until he apologised, but he darted out of the way with a giggle and ran to hide behind Osha.

“Come along Little Lord,” Osha said fondly, “And you as well Arya, and Lyanna too. I’d rather have all of you know this move.”

She bade them all stand so they could see her and held a dagger out before her, at about the height suitable for hitting someone in the lower gut or groin.

“Now, if someone tries to touch you in a way you do not like then you stab them, you don’t hesitate, you stab them straight in the groin. There’s a main blood vessel there, and if you are lucky you will hit it, and if not well, they won’t be doing anything with that piece of equipment for a while.”

Her eyes were not looking at them as she spoke, but rather over their heads, and when Arya turned her own to look she met the cold eyes of Lord Baelish.

There was a reason that Osha had deemed this lesson the most important to learn at this moment.

* * *

Jon had asked Arya to make sure that Torva and Munda were well while they were away from everyone they knew, while they were surrounded by a culture that was so unfamiliar to them, and so Arya did as he asked. She would have done so anyway, had her brother not asked, but she would spend even more time on it because he had asked her specifically and she did not want to let him down.

Not that it was any hardship to spend time with Torva and Munda, they were sweet girls, sweeter than any of Rickon’s friends normally were. And they absolutely loved the direwolves, meaning they automatically went up in Arya’s opinion.

Anyone who loved the wolves, and who the wolves loved in return could not be a bad person. Not when the wolves had shown themselves to be good judges of character multiple times.

She was not patient enough to teach them to read, that job had fallen to the Maester and Brienne, no, she spent her time with them teaching them about the Northern Houses, and what little she knew about the fortress they were now heirs to. Or well, the sanitised version anyway, there was no reason to give them nightmares about the lands they would one day own.

Lysa had insisted that the two of them be given dresses to wear, to replace their furs, and they looked so very uncomfortable in such attire. Munda still tripped over her skirts with regularity and Torva’s hems were often encrusted with dirt from forgetting to pick them slightly before walking outside.

Arya’s dislike for her aunt grew ever so slightly every time she saw the misery on her nieces-by-marriage’s faces.

But she had promised she would not cause trouble for her and so did not retaliate in the way she wanted to, instead she just did not attempt to temper Rickon’s wildness. Especially when it was one of the few things that brought a smile to the faces of Torva and Munda, and annoyed both Littlefinger and Lysa.

It was the little things sometimes.

Often, in exchange for the stories Arya told them of the North, Munda and Torva would tell her stories about Beyond the Wall. All their stories sounded exciting, tales of ice spiders and giants that made her want to travel there when the war was over, to see these marvels for herself.

Even the stories of glaciers that sparkled in the sunlight, and fields of blooms peeping up through the snow sounded almost too good to be true. Sounded almost too fantastical to be real, but the girls swore they were, swore that thy had seen them with their own eyes.

She left each of their lessons, each of their storytelling sessions, with a renewed determination to travel, to see the wonders of the world, before she was tied into her marriage.

* * *

The sun was barely peaking over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, when Arya was awoken by her door being knocked on. She gently shifted Lyanna off of her to allow her to open the door, the pair shared a bed to keep warm in the drafty halls of the Eyrie.

A servant stood there, clad in the pale blue livery of the Arryns, wringing their hands nervously. They bowed when Arya opened the door and stammered nervously.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but your presence is required in Lady Arryn’s chambers, she’s taken ill in the night. The Maester thinks, my lady, that she’s dying,”

Arya did not even shut the door as she rushed to pull a gown over her night shift, her breeches would take too long to put on and her aunt was less waspish when she wore gowns anyway. She slipped her feet into her boots, uncaring of her lack of stockings or that her boots did not really match her dress, and left her hair in the braid she slept in.

She followed after the servant, leaving Lyanna’s snores behind, and wove through the winding corridors of the Eyrie until she reached her aunt’s rooms.

“Arya!” Robin barrelled into her with a strength she did not know he possessed in his scrawny limbs, “Its Mama! She’s ill and the Maester says she might not make it.”

He sounded close to tears so Arya wrapped her arms around him and crooned soothingly in his ears. She might not have any especial closeness to her aunt, but she had come to care for Robin and did not like to see him sad, not when she could relate to the pain of losing both mother and father.

She kept him wrapped up in her arms as she moved to her aunt’s bedside, and from the look of Lysa, the Maester was right.

Lysa’s skin was tinted with yellow, her lips pale, and her eyes bloodshot. Her breath rasped out of her mouth with a slight rattle, and every few minutes she let out a hacking cough that shook her whole frame.

She looked mere inches from death and it was likely a generous estimation that she would make it to sundown. Not when each breath seemed a little weaker than the last, and when each cough shook her frame more viciously than before.

“SweetRobin.” Her aunt rasped, her throat sounding like it contained sandpaper.

Arya let Robin go so he could move to his mother’s side. he rushed over to her, and with a strength that was surprising she pulled him to her chest.

A pained smile graced her face and for a moment, despite the illness and bitterness, Arya could see how beautiful she was, for it shone through with the love she held for her son. It was the sort of love that could not be hidden, all encompassing and beautiful and frightening. Frightening for it was the sort of love that meant she would do anything for her child, anything if it could just keep him safe.

Robin snuggled into his mother’s chest, looking more like a child of the same age as Rickon than the same age as Bran. But she supposed he had reason to, what she wouldn’t give for her mother to be there at that moment, whole and as she had been before they left Winterfell.

Arya looked away for a moment, not wanting to intrude on the moment between mother and son, and her gaze fell upon Baelish. For someone who purported to love Lysa, he seemed remarkably unaffected by the possibility of her dying, he seemed almost bored with the whole thing, as though he was just waiting for it to be over. A niggling suspicion began to take hold in Arya’s mind but before it could do much more than start to take root her attention was diverted back to her aunt.

Lysa let out a loud, ratting breath and then grew still, her eyes closed and her grip on Robin failed, and as tears started to stream down his face and wails wrack his throat, Arya did not have to look at the lack of her aunt’s chest rising and falling with her breaths to know what had happened.

Her aunt was dead.


	29. Brynden

“Ser Brynden, have you been relegated to messenger raven for you niece?” Tywin Lannister sneered, “What a fall from grace for the man who stole the false queen from the Red Keep. Have you done something to upset her perhaps? Suggested an earlier bedtime or taken away her dessert?”

Tywin Lannister was an unpleasant, stuck up man, but Brynden would not fall for his taunts.

“Her Grace is well aware of the importance of delegation.” Brynden said, a smirk playing on the corners of her mouth, “She is fully aware of her own limitations and does not try to hide them and pretend she is invincible.”

Tywin Lannister looked like he had dung beneath his nose and Brynden allowed a sense of smugness to fill his veins.

“As it is Her Grace has sent the plans and maps relevant to this stretch of the Wall and the castles upon it, in the hope that you will find them useful. She also sends a token of good will in the form of firewood enough to last you until you can effectively start cutting your own.”

It had been very generous of Sansa to offer such a thing, and Brynden had advised against it, but she had argued that if they were to gift such a thing to any of their other allies they should also gift it to the Lannisters. It was a very Sansa thing to argue, and Brynden hoped that it would not backfire on them, that it would foster at least a little good will between their Houses.

Or if not between their Houses, at least it might make the commanders below Tywin look upon them with a little kindness when the fighting between them broke out once more.

“Please relay our thanks to Lady Stark for her generosity.” Lannister said with a curl of his lip, “Although if she hopes that her generosity will lessen the punishment for her treason, she is sorely mistaken.”

The urge to punch Lannister, or run him through with his sword, increased drastically at those words.

“Of course, there is a way that you could lessen the punishment your niece receives, bend the knee to the Iron Throne and we will be merciful. Your niece is a child, bend the knee and renounce your rebellion and King Tommen will allow you to take your nieces and nephews into exile.” Lannister said self-righteously, as though he was doing Brynden a favour.

Brynden’s wish to impale the Old Lion on his blade suddenly increased drastically.

“I shall relay your offer to Queen Sansa, and allow her to make the choice.” Brynden said, “But I would advise you not to hold your breath waiting for an answer. I do have something for you, a letter from your son. Seeing as you have not heard from him in a year, Queen Sansa thought you might appreciate a letter from him, seeing how we are temporary allies.”

Lannister’s face turned almost as crimson as his banners, “Am I supposed to believe that you would just let my son write to me? That the letter does not contain words you have written and forced my heir to sign?”

Brynden shrugged, “It is your choice whether or not you believe the letter, I said I would deliver it, and I have.”

Lannister scowled but snatched the letter out of Brynden’s hands, he eyed the plain red wax seal with disgust.

Brynden wanted this audience to be done with, wanted to leave the lion’s den behind for the safety of his own men. “Do you have any questions about the strategy that has been put together, or how the information is going to be carried between the camps?”

He waited for Lannister to shake his head in disagreement then turned and slung his cloak back around his shoulders.

“Then I wish you good fortune in the battles to come, Lord Lannister.”

* * *

Brynden tried not to let his anger show as he stalked through the camp, who the fuck did Tywin Lannister think he was? How dare he try and force Brynden into bending the knee, how dare he almost break their very fragile treaty.

Brynden was going to enjoy seeing his head on a spike on the walls of Winterfell.

His anger must have been readily apparent however, for the men all moved out of his way, soldier and Brother of the Watch alike.

A brightly coloured chest stood in his path and Brynden found himself pulled against a familiar chest before he could really register who it was.

The scent of cinnamon and wine filled his nose, and the layers of silks and wool were soft beneath his head as he rested his cheek against a broad shoulder.

“What’s wrong, dear one?”

“Tywin fucking Lannister made the ever so generous offer to send my whole family into exile if I bent the knee to him.” Brynden groaned, as he rested his head heavily on Oberyn’s shoulder.

Oberyn patted his hair, “There, there, if he does succeed, we shall merely visit my home in Bravos. Spend some time in the sun and warmth before retaking your home from the Lannisters once more.”

Amazingly Oberyn’s words did make Brynden feel a little better, although not as much as seeing Tywin Lannister’s head on a pike would.

“Anyway, dear one, I came to tell you that you have a visitor. Or rather, your nephew does but I’m sure that you would rather speak to them first.” Oberyn continued, his hand moving to caress Brynden’s cheek instead of his hair.

It seemed that Brynden did not have much of a choice, not if Oberyn had come to find him specially.

“All right then, lets go meet this visitor.” He sighed.

He lifted his head from Oberyn’s shoulder and cracked his back as he stood. Brynden shot Oberyn a look and gestured for him to lead him to this visitor, something Oberyn did by grabbing him by the hand, they both relished that by being in a camp that belonged to Sansa’s kingdoms they could do such a thing, that they could show affection publicly.

It likely should not have shocked Brynden to see the Griffins of House Connington, nor the Dragon of House Targaryen, but for some reason it did. Perhaps he had been so preoccupied with the threats of Lannister that he had forgotten about the other threat to his family.

He would quite happily admit though, to his relief at the apparent lack of Targaryen among their visitors. He had met Lord Connington before Robert’s Rebellion and knew his character, but as for the boy, he did not know whether he was more Targaryen or Martell yet which made him a danger to deal with.

“Lord Connington.” Brynden inclined his head.

“Lord Hand.” Lord Connington inclined his head back. “Prince Oberyn. King Aegon sends his thanks for Queen Sansa’s gift of wood. He also sends a gift for his brother’s name day and a request for his brother to meet him at some point to discuss the succession.”

Brynden felt a headache emerging, he did not want to deal with the problems that would occur if Jon was named Aegon’s heir. They had just managed to pacify the lords that Jon had no deigns upon the Iron Throne, if such a thing was declared then the problems would start up again.

He did not have fucking time to deal with this shit.

But he did not have a choice, he would have to pass on the message, the request, and the gift. Would have to inform his nephew that the brother he did not want wished to speak with him. It was not a prospect he was relishing the idea of at all.

“I will pass the request and the gift on to Prince Jon, my lord.” Brynden said, forcing his displeasure out of his voice, “Would you like to partake in a drink before you make the trek back to your camp?”

Never let it be said that he did not know how to host a political ally.

Lord Connington looked taken aback but agreed to join them for a drink in Oberyn’s quarters. Mostly because Brynden’s held sensitive information that he did not want the Hand of a rival king to see, but also because Oberyn kept the good alcohol in his room, whereas Brynden only had the strong but unpleasant tasting ale that the Watch brewed.

“A glass of red, Lord Connington, or perhaps some of the gold that my dear Willas sent me?” Oberyn all but purred, causing a flush to appear on Connington’s face.

Brynden knew exactly what Oberyn was doing, it was not a secret that Jon Connington had been more than a little in love with Rhaegar Targaryen, it was not a secret where his preferences lay, just as it was no secret where Oberyn’s or Brynden’s lay. The real question was whether Oberyn was genuinely interested or whether he was hoping to disarm Connington enough to get information from him.

Or whether it was a combination of both.

“The gold please, if it not much trouble. It has been a while since I have had such a treat, it is hell to get a hold of in Essos.” Conningotn said, his eyes running appreciatively over Oberyn’s form, his gaze making Brynden wonder what else had been difficult for him to get hold of in Essos while raising a Targaryen.

“It is no trouble. Not for the man who raised my nephew.”

He did not offer Brynden the choice, merely handed him a glass of the gold that he knew Brynden preferred for the memories is brought him of a happy few weeks in the Reach.

He sipped the drink which tasted like spring time on his tongue, floral and fragrant and fresh and watched as Oberyn wove his magic. It was impressive to witness, to watch as Lord Connington fell under his spell and relaxed with the wine and flattery until he began to reveal what his charge was really like.

And it was not a pretty picture, for all Aegon Targaryen did not seem to have the madness of his grandfather he did seem to have the egotistical view of the world. It seemed he was quick to temper, and idolised his father, although he could admit that his father had made mistakes.

What could they have expected though when the boy had been raised by someone who had been in love with Rhaegar Targaryen?

From what he heard though, it made him all the more determined to prevent any attempt at a betrothal between Aegon Targaryen and Sansa, she had been at the mercy of a quick to anger king before, and he would never put her in that situation again of he could help it.

Darkness quickly fell outside the window, and Bryden knew that Lord Connington had not noticed, his attention completely captivated by Oberyn’s lithe movements.

“What a shame, it is late now, and the ground will be treacherous to traverse. I am sorry for keeping you so long, my lord.” Oberyn said, in a voice that was very much unapologetic.

Lord Connington turned his flushed cheeks to the window and he did seem very much surprised by how dark it truly was outside.

“So it is, how time flies when you are in such pleasant company. I had not realised how starved I was for conversation such as you have provided in the past few years until this moment.”

“Well then, Jon, if I may be so bold, you are welcome to stay for a while longer.” Oberyn purred, rolling the vowels around in his mouth and playing with the words until Lord Connington’s eyes dilated.

Brynden resigned himself to having little rest that night, although Lord Connington was a comely man so it truly would not be a hardship.

* * *

“Oh for fucks sake!” Brynden groaned upon seeing what was going on inside the room of which’s door he had just opened, “Now I know how Edmure feels.”

Jon and Tormund sprang apart and Brynden deliberately looked away, he did not know what they had been doing beyond kissing, and he did not want to know.

A delicate cough from his nephew informed him that he could look back at them and he was pleased to see that Jon appeared to be just as embarrassed as he was. Tormund on the other hand just looked smug.

“Was there something you needed Brynden?” Jon asked, not meeting his eyes.

“I came to see how you were doing, I know that it must be difficult for you to be here.” Brynden said, “But it seems my concern was unnecessary, your husband appears to have been doing an admirable job of distracting you.”

He did not know how it was possible but Tormund’s grin became even smugger.

“Also, the pair of you need to come and meet the captains that will be under your command,” Brynden continued, “You’ll be commanding a combination of Stark and Dreadfort men, and it would be a good idea to ensure that the former Bolton men do not resent your command.”

Jon nodded at him, but Tormund’s smug grin faded into confusion.

“What do you mean by ‘captains under my command’? I thought I’d be fighting with the Free Folk.”

Brynden resisted the urge to sigh and looked to Jon for him to explain.

“When you married me, and took my cloak,” Jon said slowly, “You became a lord, a lord of the Dreadfort and the lands surrounding it. That means that in war time it is your duty to command the men from those lands and ensure they are cared for as you would in peace time.”

“But that makes no sense, what if the lord is an idiot? What if one of the men is better at tactics?” Tormund asked.

“That’s just how it is, how it has always been.” Jon said, “Even in the Watch, which was supposedly unbiased, it was your name and blood that put you in a position of command. The lords will not listen to anyone without noble blood, or who is not married to a noble.”

“Well that’s fucking stupid.”

“Stupid it may be, but it is how things work. The pair of you still need to meet the men you will be leading, they need to know their lords, and you need to know the people you will be ruling after the wars are over.” Brynden said, his tone softening the harsh words.

It was an unfortunate truth that after the wars were over Jon and Tormund would go to live in the Dreadfort, that they could not live in Winterfell forever, no matter how much the whole family might wish otherwise. The people of those lands deserve far better than an absent lord after dealing with the cruelty of the Boltons for so long.

Jon tugged his husband towards the doorway, he knew that he had to go and greet the men. Cat may not have liked the lad, but she had impressed the Tully values into him just as much as she had her own children, just as much as Ned Stark had influenced the lad, it was why he was not worried after the truth about his blood had come out.

Brynden clicked his tongue and looked pointedly at the cloak of Jon’s that still hung over the hooks. The lad had lived in the North all his life, and still forgot that he needed a cloak if he wasn’t going to freeze to death when he went outside.

Jon’s cheeks reddened and for a moment he looked like an errant child, he swept the cloak over his shoulders and gently punched his husband’s arm when he laughed at him.

Brynden gestured for them to leave the rom first, he did not really trust them to not get distracted if he went first,

“Oh, and Jon?” He waited for his nephew to turn to him. “Happy name-day.”


	30. Jon

Jon could not believe he had forgotten it was his name day. Not that he had celebrated his last one, that had occurred when he was Beyond the Wall, infiltrating the Free Folk, it had been gift enough that he had not been found out, that he had loved another day.

This year though, this year his siblings and uncle had remembered, had sent him gifts even that had made him smile despite the fear that filled his veins being back in the place he had died.

His siblings had obviously worked together on his gifts from them, for he received a cloak from Sansa that was almost identical to the one their father had worn, and also a belt and sheath for a dagger that matched the leatherwork on the straps of the cloak and Brynden and Edmure had gifted him a dagger to fit the sheath. He had been gifted with a broach by Aegon, made of silver shaped into the three headed dragon with garnets for eyes, one that was obviously a heirloom and that he would appreciate for that fact even if he thought the broach itself was hideous. There had been other trinkets as well, from Northern lords who hoped to find favour with Sansa and thought that their gifts would make him speak kindly of them to her.

As for Tormund, Jon had received two gifts from his husband, a pendant made from a bear tooth and some time, just the two of them with no one to disturb them. It was the time together that he treasured the most, they had not had much time just the two of them, not without being interrupted by being called for strategy meetings or because a brawl had occurred between their men.

If he did not know better Jon would have suspected witchcraft on Tormund’s part for such an achievement, but he knew it was likely instead a combination of threats and bribery that had gained them those few precious hours.

They had been met by knowing looks by many when they had emerged from their chambers after their time was up, but in truth they had done little more than laze under furs by the fire, exchanging soft, slow kisses and talking of everything and nothing.

They had built a bubble around themselves, one which the thoughts of war could not penetrate and where they felt content and safe. One where they could express their affection without worrying as to whether a Southerner would take offense. One where Jon could forget his death in these Halls and where he could ignore how his former brothers still declined to acknowledge him. One where Tormund could forget that his daughters were so very far away.

It was sweet, but sweetness never lasted long, not when they were at war, not when they were surrounded on all sides by enemies.

Jon promised himself that when the wars were over, when there was peace, he and Tormund would hide in the chambers in their castle and would just relax. Would savour just being alive and together.

It was a fool’s dream perhaps, but a dream that Jon would use to see himself through the oncoming hardships.

* * *

Brynden had passed on the gift from Aegon, and a request at the same time from his brother, a request Jon had agreed to without much thought, his mind too distracted by the amusing sight of a dishevelled and obviously hungover Lord Connington leaving the camp to have paid much attention to his uncle’s words. But that meant he would have to actually meet his half-brother, something he did not particularly wish to do, for it felt as though he wished to replace Robb in Jon’s affections.

Jon already had an older brother; he did not need another one.

His father had taught him well though, and he would not go back on his word, he would meet his brother, no matter how awkward the meeting would be.

And awkward it was.

Jon looked at Aegon. Aegon looked at Jon. The silence was awkward, for both were aware that in another life they would have been close, perhaps as close as a Jon and Robb had been in this life.

Any familiarity felt wrong, felt forced, and yet formality felt wrong as well. The weight of the years they had spent apart and the blood they shared pressed down upon them as heavy as the promises they made to be different to their grandfather.

“Thank you, for the gift.” Jon finally ventured, when the silence had gone on for too long.

Aegon smiled back weakly, “I’m pleased you liked it, even if you hold no desire for the Targaryen name, you still deserve a piece of our family history. The broach was our grandmother’s.”

Jon had never really heard much about Queen Rhaella, only that she did not have a happy marriage and that she had died giving birth to her only daughter.

“She was the one who had arranged with Lord Varys to snuggle me out, she had tried to get my sister and mother out as well, but...” Aegon’s voice trailed off and Jon felt a burst of sympathy in his chest.

He moved closer and put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, in the way he would have with Robb.

“I wish I could have known them. From what I have heard, they sound like they were good people.” Jon said softly.

His words were not a lie, although he wondered just how Elia Martel would have reacted to her husband bringing back a bastard child, would she have reacted better or worse than Lady Catelyn had?

“From what my protectors have told me they were, they did not deserve to die for a broken betrothal.” Aegon said with confidence that almost made Jon forget how stupid his words were.

He did not really think that Robert’s Rebellion, that a war that made family fight family and caused everyone in Westeros to examine their loyalties, was caused by a broken betrothal?

And if he did think such a thing, then what else did he not know? What of the laws and customs and traditions did he not know that would be necessary if he wished to rule? What of the alliances and unspoken hatred between families?

Jon had the sudden urge to test Aegon’’s knowledge of Westerosi law and the customs that defined their everyday lives.

“What did you learn about oaths of fealty?” He asked carefully, as he watched Aegon’s face for any signs of insult.

Aegon looked confused but answered, “The person swearing the oath promises to obey and to not bring dishonour upon the one they are swearing to.”

Jon waited to see if his brother would say anything more, but Aegon said nothing more. It was as he had feared then, Aegon did not have a true understanding of the laws of Westeros, he sought to rule over a people whose laws and customs he did not really know.

“And did you learn that the king is supposed to swear an oath in return? To protect their subjects, to uphold the law, to be just?” Jon asked conversationally. “That both parties must uphold their oath so that order reigns.”

Aegon looked startled, as though he had not heard of or thought of such a thing before. As if he had not heard of a lesson that Ned Stark had ensured his sons, his daughters and his ward had all learned- even Rickon knew of the roles involved in an oath of fealty.

“Is there a point to this lesson, little brother?” Aegon’s vice was filled with a careless arrogance that made Jon stiffen for it reminded him almost of the way that Jaime Lannister spoke.

Jon sat down heavily in a wooden chair near to the fire and gestured for Aegon to do the same.

“Because, under Westerosi law you hold no claim to the Iron Throne. The claim of the Targaryens was destroyed when Robert Baratheon was crowned under Right of Conquest. A right he invoked when the oaths of fealty were broken by Aerys Targaryen with the murder of the Lord Paramount of the North and his heir, and the request for Lord Arryn to send his wards, the Lord of the Stormlands and the new Lord of the North, to Kings Landing for execution.”

He doubted Aegon had been taught the true reasons behind the rebellion, not if he had been raised by Targaryen loyalists who had not seen fit to teach him the basic laws of ruling.

“That… that’s not true.” Aegon protested, before his voice turned abruptly childlike, “Is it?”

Jon did not know how to answer, did Aegon really think that the war had started because a girl had been stolen? Did he think that other than the abduction of Lyanna Stark the Targaryens had done nothing wrong?

“It is the truth.” Jon said simply, he hoped his words would not cause the legendarily fiery temper of the Targaryens to flare up in his brother, and it seemed he was lucky.

Aegon merely sank his head into his hands, and a melancholy sigh left his lips.

“What then, should I do? If that is truth, then I hold no claim on Westeros, and much of what I have learnt is a falsehood.”

Jon placed a hand on his shoulder and spoke in what he hoped was a comforting tone.

“I cannot answer for you, but you should speak with Stannis Baratheon. He is the true heir to the Iron Throne, and the current lord of Dragonstone. I might be wrong, but if you make a deal with him, he may return Dragonstone, the ancestral seat of the Targaryen’s to you.”

It was the route he could think of with the least bloodshed, one that many would likely accept in the South for it would allow the Targaryens to return without hosting a greenboy with little knowledge of the laws of Westeros on the Throne.

Aegon looked up at him with wide violet eyes, “That is sage advice, brother. Are you sure I cannot tempt you to join me in the home of our forefathers?”

“I am content here. I’m more wolf than dragon, and we are further South already than my husband ever wished to travel.” Jon answered, “Why not send a message to the aunt and uncle we supposedly have in Essos if you wish for company?”

“Just an aunt.” Aegon corrected him, “Our uncle died at the hands of a Dothraki. And I do not think our aunt will wish to visit Westeros, she was Queen of Slaver’s Bay last that I heard, why would she wish to give that up?”

His words made Jon realise how little they knew about the goings on in Essos, the Northern kingdoms did not have a spymaster such as Varys, they had Arya and the network of bards she had somehow managed to cultivate, but they had no one reporting to them from over the Narrow Sea. Something that could quite easily backfire upon them in the future.

“No, I don’t suppose she will.” Jon said instead of any of the myriad of thoughts that were running through his head, “Just be careful though, when you go to speak to Stannis Baratheon. He has a proclivity for fire that would put Aerys Targaryen to shame, and his witch has an obsession with the blood of kings.”

Aegon grinned at him, “Is that concern I hear baby brother? I shall be careful, when am I not?”

Jon did not dignify that with a response.

* * *

The days had been getting shorter and the nights darker, everyone agreed on this. It made them all tense and each person reacted differently to the intolerable waiting.

Some had shorter tempers, some gazed with wide, frightened eyes at everything around them as though committing it all to memory, others found someone to spend their time with. Jon would never admit it out loud but he clung to Tormund, unwilling to spend what might be his last days parted from the man he loved.

It was inevitable that the tension would break, in one way or another. And break it did.

The horn blew once. Twice. Thrice.

The whole camp froze and then sprung into a frenzied action, they had planned for this, spent hours working out rotations for the archers and infantry alike, and yet it had never felt so real.

Jon felt helpless, he was not in this rotation of fighters, he would not be leading a charge against the Others, although that did not mean he would not be helping.

There was no great clatter of weaponry though, no snarls of the undead filling the air, merely an eerie silence and then a sudden boom against the gates beneath the Wall.

The boom sounded again, and again. And it suddenly dawned on Jon that someone was knocking on the gate, asking to be let through.

He pushed through the waiting men, Tormund on his heels, and into the tunnel below the Wall, he would see what the knocking was when the archers had not yet been given the order to fire.

He was shocked to see a single rider on a horse.

Even more shocked when the clothing of the rider registered, the man was dressed in the garb of the Night’s Watch, the armour and cloak of a ranger, ragged and torn though it may be.

There were no signs of an ambush, the birds still sang in the trees and so Jon shouted for the gate to be opened. He sent a desperate prayer to every god there was that he was not making a mistake, for if he was then it was one he would soon pay for.

The gate opened and the rider entered the tunnel just far enough that it could be closed behind him with a great, final thud. It likely would not open again, would be broken down instead of opened.

The rider flung back their hood and Jon gasped, it was a face he had not expected to see again, one he had not seen since his father was still alive. It was his uncle.

His uncle swayed once and then all but fell off the horse and Jon rushed to catch him. He had heard that Uncle Benjen was alive, but he could see that those reports were not fully true.

Benjen’s skin was ice cold and the white of death, his skin blackened in some places with decay and torn with injuries that seeped a thick black liquid. The only thing that kept Jon from stabbing him with Longclaw was the grey of his eyes, his eyes that were free from the corrupted blue of the Others.

His uncle’s eyes darted around, fear visible in them, until they suddenly locked onto Jon’s own. His skeletal hands twisted around the straps on Jon’s armour with a surprising strength.

He pulled Jon down until they were close enough that Jon could heard Benjen’s ragged breathing and then he spoke, a single rasping sentence that filled Jon’s very bones with terror.

“They are coming.”


	31. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so Arya goes through a LOT in this chapter, so just bear that in mind as she reacts to events

With the sudden downpour of rain and the sudden increase in wind speed it was all but impossible to go outside, even in the sheltered courtyards of the Eyrie. The weather not aided by the short days, the darkness that seemed to never truly leave, even when the sun was up.

It had made them all restless, for they were trapped inside, despite the large halls they felt so very small when they were shared with Baelish.

Arya did not trust him, she had seen the way he reacted to her aunt’s death, he was unsurprised, and certainly not distraught enough for someone who had professed to love her.

Robin had become even more clingy, he barely let Arya out of his sight, as though he was scared that to do so would mean she too would die. Rickon oscillated between clinging to Arya as well, or sheltering with Osha and the mothering she provided him.

Osha was who she left Robin with when Arya needed some time away from him, when she wanted to train as best she could with Brienne or Lyanna, or just have a few moments to herself. Sometimes, if she was lucky Gendry would take Robin to show him something in the armoury or forges, something that Arya was sure only worked because Robin looked at Gendry in the way that Sansa had watched Joffrey once upon a time, or the way Jeyne Poole had looked at Robb when they were children.

If Arya was going to be completely honest, Gendry was a godsend. He was quite adept at distracting the two boys when need be, even if he was a stupid head who insisted on calling her ‘milady’ half the time. She would probably be jealous of the time he spent with Robin and Rickon, if it didn’t result in her having some free time.

She looked out of the window and hoped that the rain would soon stop, before restlessness and irritation cause injury. Or before Rickon drove her mad with questions.

“Do you think Bran and Sansa and Jon and Uncle Brynden are all right?” Rickon asked her, his question echoed in the eyes of Robin.

Arya squashed the worry that bloomed in her own chest at that question, they needed comforting, not a realistic view of the chances of all their family surviving.

“Of course. Uncle Brynden and Sansa are too stubborn to die, Bran survived falling from the broken tower and Beyond the Wall; and Jon already came back from the dead once, whose to say he won’t do it again?”

Rickon looked thoughtful and nodded “Arya?”

Arya hoped his question was not as difficult as the previous. “Yes Rickon?”

“I’m bored.”

“Well, we can’t have that now, can we?” She grinned in answer, “Tell you what, lets play a game. I’ll count and you hide. The last person I find wins. Ready?”

She put her hands over her eyes and tried not to think about how Bran had always been the best at this game, and Robb the worst. She began to count and listened as footsteps scurried away from her, Robin had the home advantage but the others were all sneaky enough that undoubtedly they would be able to play this game for a while.

Arya grinned, it had been a while since she had played Hide and Seek with her siblings, and she had forgotten just how fun it could be… especially when she could cheat and ask Nymeria to help her.

* * *

The floor glistened ever so slightly, as though it was freshly washed and not yet dried, but that could not be what it was, for Arya had run into the person who had just finished the floor on her way to break her fast that morning. It was not a detail that she would have paid attention to had the thud of running feet not entered the hall, closely following by the scratching of claws on stone. It was a noise that could only herald the arrival of her brother.

She ducked behind a pillar, intent on jumping out and scaring him as he ran past her. He deserved a fright, in penance for the cold water he had flung over her that morning to wake her up. He was restless, that was obvious, and he took it out on her in the way she had always done with Robb and Jon. Not Sansa, she had never done anything like that to Sansa, they had sniped at each other and played cruel tricks, but she had never really treated her as an older sibling.

Not until she had reunited with her sister at Riverrun anyway.

A creaking noise jolted her out of her thoughts, and Arya looked to see where it had come from. Her gaze was drawn to a whisper of blue, the corner of a cloak in a blue so rich it stood out against the pale stone walls. But it was gone before she could see it much clearer, and her gaze was drawn to the centre of the room as the temperature suddenly dropped.

The Moon Door was open.

The Moon Door was open and Rickon was running around on a floor that was still slippery.

She burst out from her hiding place and yelled for her brother to stop, to turn around, to see that the door was open, but she was too late. Rickon turned at the sound of her voice and lost his footing and stumbled and…

Arya’s heart stopped as her baby brother wobbled on the edge of the Moon Door, as he nearly stumbled and fell to his death on the mountain side.

It was only luck that he skidded away from the hole in the floor, to land safely on his side. He would be bruised perhaps, but he was alive.

She felt the fear that her mother must have felt every time she and Bran had made a game of climbing around Winterfell, the fear that her mother had had realised when Bran fell. The fear that was nearly realised with Rickon’s slip.

She rushed over to him and pulled him away from the hole in the floor, her arms tight enough around him that she could feel his heartbeat thudding wildly and the shakes of fear that wracked his tiny frame.

Arya could hear sobbing, deep, wrenching sobs, that she realised with some horror came from her own chest. Sobs loud enough that they drew in just the person Arya wanted to see.

“Arry?” Gendry’s stupid voice cut through her haze of fear.

He walked over to her carefully, as though he was approaching one of their wolves. And Arya supposed that was an accurate comparison, she felt like a wolf as that moment, feral with protectiveness for her baby brother.

A gentle hand was placed upon her back, and she nearly snarled at the contact, at someone daring to place their hands upon her and come near her brother.

“Arry,” Gendry’s voice was near her ear, gentle and soft and safe, “You are safe, Rickon is safe. Even Shaggydog and Nymeria are safe.”

His words coaxed her out of the protective grip she had upon Rickon, coaxed her into standing, and allowing him to stand as well, although she kept a firm grip on her baby brother’s clothes, for fear of him falling again. He continued to speak to her in a low voice, the way one would speak to a wounded animal, until they had left the chamber and had found Brienne and Osha.

Their protectors had taken one look at the way Arya was clinging to Rickon, one look at the fear that was one both their faces and the concern on Gendry’s and had immediately wrapped them up in a hug.

She calmed down away from the site of her brother’s brush with death, wrapped up in Brienne’s strong grip, with Gendry at her side and Rickon in her view. And as she calmed her mind started to tick over what she had seen.

The Moon Door had not been open when she had entered the room, had not been open when Rickon had entered the room. It had been opened when Rickon was running, opened by someone wearing a cloak in a shade of blue so bright it could not have belonged to a servant.

Someone had just tried to kill Rickon.

Someone had tried to kill her brother and they would pay for that.

* * *

Arya was fairly sure that whoever had tried to kill Rickon did not know that she had been in the room. She had been well hidden, she had always been especially good at hiding when it was going to be used to torment a sibling, but all she had to go on was the glimpse of a cloak.

She could only hope that whoever had tried to kill her baby brother was arrogant enough to wear that cloak again. After all if she was correct in her suspicions, they were arrogant enough to kill Aunt Lysa in her own home, and that would certainly transfer over to an attempt to kill the Heir to the Throne of the Northern Kingdoms.

She just had to wait and see what they would try next.

But until that happened, she would not let her friends, her brother, or her betrothed, out of her sight. Not when something could happen to them with no one aware.

Robin had insisted that they have a tea party in his solar, and not even Rickon complained when he found out that there would be cakes, for if there was one thing the Vale was it was well stocked with food.

She had been surprised when they first arrived to find out that Robin had his own tea set, a delicate one painted with various animals and glazed in a pale blue, but by this point they had used it so much that they all had their favourite cup. Rickon liked the wolf, and Arya’s favourite was the fish, for it looked similar to the one on the banners of her mother’s family.

They always used the cup they preferred, even if they did joke about Brienne’s love for the one with a lion painted on its side.

Robin was particular in the way his tea parties were run, more particular than even Sansa had been with hers, and each of them had tea already poured into their cups and the cake he had chosen for them on their plates. Before the death of his mother, Rickon would likely have complained about that, but they had all become more indulgent of Robin in the days following Lysa’s death.

Arya was pleased to see that on the plate by her cup was a raspberry tart, they were her favourite, a reminder of happier times and picnics with her family in the summer. She picked up her cup and breathed in the steam, the scent of the tea already in it. It must have been a new blend for she did not recognise it, did not recognise the combination of herbs.

She raised it as though to take a sip but the cup was stolen from her grasp before she could s much as touch her lips to the rim.

Gendry laughed, her stolen cup in his hands, he danced out of the way and brought it to his lips, downing it in a few short gulps despite his grimace at the heat of it.

He grinned at her triumphantly and then… and then… and then he clutched his throat and started to cough.

Arya’s heart clenched as he dropped to the ground, his breath rasping and his face paling.

She made to rush to him but Brienne held her back, “No, my lady, it isn’t safe. You don’t know what was in the tea.”

She screamed instead, screamed for a Maester, a healer, anyone who could help Gendry, anyone who could keep her from loosing another person she loved. She felt as helpless as she had the first time she saw the Twins, the night she saw her brother’s corpse paraded around.

Strong arms wrapped around her, like they had that night, but instead of the Hound it was Brienne, but they still pulled her away, stopped her from helping even as she screamed and clawed and tried to get to him.

Once again her sense of time seemed to depart her, she had no idea how long it was until the Maester arrived, only that it took far too long for her tastes. But then, even a single second would have been too long in her opinion.

The Maester examined Gendry where he lay and pulled out a mirror to hold over his mouth. Arya sagged in Brienne’s hold when she saw mist form on its surface, for it meant he was still breathing, still alive.

“He’s been very lucky.” The Maester said slowly, “if he is still breathing now, then it means there is the chance he will recover. He must not have ingested enough for it to affect him fully. I believe that if he survives until the end of the week then he will make a full recovery.”

A calm haze settled over her mind at the Maester’s words, if the dose was small enough Gendry stood a chance of survival then it wasn’t meant for him but for someone smaller.

And he had been drinking from the cup that was usually hers.

Someone had tried to kill her.

* * *

She was so very proud of Robin and the meeting he had called, the way that his voice did not tremble as he addressed his lords, despite it being his first time and the difficult subject matter.

“My lords, as you know, I have mostly left the running of the Vale to those able to do so, while I learn from them. I have been content to do so, with the knowledge that my kingdom is safe, that my people are safe.” The slightest tremble in his voice began as he spoke his next few words, “But today my people were not safe, my family were not safe. And worse than that, my someone attempted to kill my betrothed, just this afternoon. It is only luck that she is here now.”

All the eyes in the room turned to Arya, and many widened at the bared teeth Nymeria showed them from her position behind her.

“And it is not just myself who has had a lucky escape, my lords.” Arya said, rising to her feet, “My brother, the Heir to the Throne, was nearly killed just yesterday in what likely would have appeared to be a tragic accident had I not seen that someone opened the Moon Door when they heard him approach.”

Her words caused murmuring among the lords, and although they wore pale coloured wools and silks instead of leathers and furs, and although the walls wee made of a stone so pale it was almost white, Arya felt like she was almost back in Winterfell watching a meeting of the lords skilfully run by her father or sister.

Robin started to speak again, asking anyone with information to come forwards, but Arya did not pay his words much attention, she knew what he was saying for they had practised it beforehand. Instead she ran an assessing gaze over the lords, looking for a face that was too knowing, or a cloak in that particular shade of blue.

And then she caught Littlefinger’s eye.

He was arrogant enough to be wearing a cloak in that shade of blue she had seen by the Moon Door, arrogant enough to smirk at her across the room and Arya saw red.

“Arrest Lord Baelish!” Arya ordered, she knew she looked wild with her heaving breaths and flyaway hair but she did not care.

The guards looked between her and the lord, as if they were unable to decide who to listen to, their princess or their lord.

“On what charge, my lady?” One particularly brave guard asked.

Arya tossed her head back and channelled as much arrogance as she could, as much of her Cersei Lannister impression as she could.

“The attempted murder of Prince Rickon and the attempted murder of myself. For treason.”

The guards sprung into action at her words, the accusations meant they could do nothing else. A traitor and murderer could not be allowed to walk free, and Arya already knew she was not going to offer Baelish the option of joining the Nights Watch, she would have his head for what he had tried to do. She would have his blood splattered on the stones for attempting to harm one of her pack.

“What do you want us to do with him, my lady?” The same guard asked and Arya pulled her lips back in a snarl.

“Take him to the Sky Cells, and know this. Anyone who helps him will join him on trial for treason.”


	32. Sansa

Sansa could not let the fear she felt show, that was not her role to play. Her role was to soothe the fear of those left behind, to calm the wives who might soon be widows, to dry the tears of those children who might soon be orphans. Her role was to keep her subjects calm in the face of the battles that were already being fought.

But she was scared, scared that her family would not return, that the peace would not last for as long as it needed to for the war to be won, that Arya and Rickon were not as safe in the Vale as she thought they were.

She could not voice those fear though, or at least not to the majority of people. She had spoken to Ellaria and Theon and Tyene about her fears, people she trusted with such thoughts and feelings.

But she would not, could not, burden them with her feelings too much, not when they had their own to be dealing with.

So much of their supplies had been sent to the Wall with the men that they had all needed to tighten their belts, Sansa had ordered the kitchens of Winterfell open for the residents of Wintertown, so that everyone could have a hot meal, at least once a day, so that hopefully children would not starve while food was scarce.

It was the right thing to do. It was what her father had done, during the winter of her birth, or at least according to the tales of this who remembered that time and the few records they found.

With so many of the men gone, everyone had to do jobs they were not as accustomed to, the woodsmen had gone with the armies, and so their job had to be done, the stable hands were gone and so new people needed to acre for the horses, it was in all honesty a logistical nightmare. But one that Sansa had somehow managed to deal with, even with a steady trickle of refugees still arriving in Wintertown.

But it seemed like for every problem she solved, two more sprung up in its place. If she wasn’t mediating a squabble over housing or supplies, she was trying to find ways to bolster their dwindling food stocks, or trying to solve the problems of her lords that still existed.

Like the plight of Alys Karstark.

If she could, she would have sent the girl home with a battalion of men to take back Karhold, but she could not in good conscience send Northman against Northman when they had much bigger problems to worry about. Instead she had made Alys one of her ladies, a position that meant no family member could force her to marry for she would need Sansa’s permission to do so, and had promised her that she would send her home when she could.

It was not enough, but it was all she could do, and her inadequacy weighed heavy on her mind.

Similarly was the problem of Ser Jaime Lannister, they had not sent him to the Wall to join the men, he was far too valuable to risk like that, he was one of the reasons that she was so secure with the treaty with the Iron Throne. No matter how annoyed with his son he might be, Tywin Lannister would not do anything to risk his safety, just as Cersei Lannister would not risk the safety of her twin.

It was a delicate balance to be maintained, and while Lannister was consulted for aid with their battle plans against the Night King, it would be a waste not to use his mind for tactics, he still moped around Winterfell, chafing at his perceived uselessness. Well, and the lack of Brienne.

His moping over Brienne was as amusing as his attempts to avoid Bran, and Bran’s attempts to be in his path at all times. It was perhaps the strangest game of cat and mouse she had seen, between a child hosting what amounted to a deity and the famed Kingslayer.

Amusing as well, and they all needed a little amusement in these dark days.

* * *

“Your Grace?”

Sansa looked up from her papers to see the face of a maid. The maid was not one she interacted with often, but when she wracked her memory she remembered it was the maid she had assigned to care for Lady Walda.

“Yes?” She asked gently, aware that the glare she had when she was concentrating could be seen as scary by some.

“It’s Lady Walda, Your Grace. The two moons you set forth are more than over and, she has not bled.” The maid stammered and Sansa could feel a ball of lead sink in her stomach at those words. Now she had another problem to deal with.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” She said, “Please have Lady Walda escorted to the Maester for a health check.”

She waited until the maid had left the room before putting her head down on her desk and letting out a long drawn out groan. Lady Walda being pregnant was the last thing she needed, she had hoped that the issue of the Boltons had been resolved but apparently not.

She wanted her mother, her uncle, her brother, anyone she could ask as to what she should do. But none of them were here, she only had her ladies.

She summoned them to her, wanting their council on this matter and they arrived without any fanfare.

“There is the high chance that Lady Walda is with child.” Sansa said without any sugar-coating.

“I could slip her tansy?” Tyene offered.

Sansa was sorely tempted by her offer, if the child did not make it to birth then her problem would be solved but, she could not bring herself to do it.

“No, if I’d wanted that done I would have had her drink some when we first took Winterfell. Besides, it is now late enough in her pregnancy that she might encounter side effect, and I have no wish for her to die.”

Ellaria and Leonette both looked approving at those words, while Jeyne looked saddened by the talk of tansy. She was still distraught over her own mother slipping it into her tea, as well she should have been.

“What will you do with the child?” Leonette asked delicately.

“The child will be raised by a Stark, and perhaps given the Hornwood lands to rule over, despite how they gained control it is truth that the last husband of Lady Hornwood was a Bolton and that the lands are currently lordless.” Sana’a said, as she carefully watched the faces of her ladies for signs of approval.

“Are you sure, Your Grace?” Jeyne asked.

Sansa sighed, “I’m not sure of anything. The child is innocent of any crime, that is true, but what is to say it will not rise up and threaten my family in future?”

Ellaria moved to her and placed a calming hand on her back, “You will, if the child is raised to love your family then they should not turn against you. Not when all they will hear of their father and brother is tales of their brutality and the price they paid for it.”

That was soothing, in a way, and maybe, if she was lucky, her uncle would be back before she had to decide what to do beyond allowing the child to be born.

She missed his council and the way he always seemed to know what to do, just as much as she missed having him around. Missed having her whole family around.

* * *

Sansa was surprised when she came across Theon in the yards by the archery butts, a bow in his hand and quiver at his side. If she ignored the white of his hair and different grip on his bow, Sansa could almost imagine that at any moment her father or Robb or Ser Rodrick would come around the corner.

It seemed almost cruel to drag him away from his practice, but there were conversations she needed to have with him that were a long time coming.

She sent Greywind to collect him, knowing that for anyone else to approach while he was near a weapon was in danger of sending him into another downward spiral.

When his weapon was down and he was by her side she linked her arm with his and led him firmly but kindly to her solar, where a warm fire was waiting for them.

“Have I done something to displease you?” Theon asked in a small voice.

Sansa gestured for him to sit and as he settled on the small sofa she perched next to him.

“Of course not Theon, I’m just worried about you. You have been distant these past few days.”

Theon wrung his hands anxiously in his lap, and despite the obvious sign of his anxiety Sansa could not help but be glad to see it. When they had first retaken Winterfell he would have just cowered in the corner or frozen like a rabbit before a wolf. For him to show his discomfort was a sign of healing.

“Then why did you order me to stay?” He asked in a voice so soft Sansa had to strain to hear it.

Suddenly the reason for his reticence made sense, he was ashamed of being left behind when the other went off to fight.

“Theon, I did not ask you to remain because I am displeased with you, or because there is anything you should be ashamed of.” Sansa tried to channel the loving firmness of her mother in her voice, “But because I feared that I would lose another brother if you travelled even further North, you struggle with the cold here, and it is supposed to be much fiercer at the Wall.”

“Is that why you didn’t let me go to the Wall with the other men, because I am broken?” Theon asked in a dead voice that made Sansa rush to reassure him.

“I didn’t let you go because I feel safer with you here, knowing that there is someone here who can keep me safe.” Sansa admitted, “Knowing that there is one person in Winterfell who is willing to keep me safe because I am me, not because of the crown I wear.”

The sight of his hunched shoulders and his hands still twisting in his lap made her recall something Lady Asha had said in conversation, something that Sansa felt guilty for not having thought of before.

“Theon, did you get the chance to see your mother again? When you went back to the Islands?” Sansa asked gently

His eyes flinched away from her to focus on the ground instead, “No, Your Grace.”

She reached out a hand and gently placed it upon his shoulder, his muscles were tense beneath her touch as though he was ready to run away or was bracing for a blow. Slowly she moved her hand until it cradled his cheek.

“What did I tell you, hmm? There is no need for you to call me ‘Your Grace’. And I promise you, that when the war is over and your sister returns you will see your mother.”

Theon’s eyes returned to her and for a moment he looked very much like Rickon, “Are you sending me away?”

He asked it in the same tone Rickon had, the voice of a lost child and Sansa’s heart threatened to burst.

“Of course not. You are as much a Stark as a Greyjoy, this is your home for as long as you want it. But you should visit your mother, for her sake if not your own.” Sansa said softly.

She knew that if she had the chance to see her mother again (her real mother, not that creature powered by vengeance) she would take it eagerly.

His eyes started to glisten, and slowly, carefully, making sure to document her movements, Sansa pulled him into a hug. He stiffened in her hold and then sagged, utterly boneless.

“When will you get it in your head that we all love you, despite the poor choice you make. Even Jon does, beneath that pout of his. And we want you happy, Theon, and I think that seeing your mother will help with that.” Sansa explained.

“I don’t deserve this.” Theon whispered, even as Greywind put his heavy head in his lap.

“Maybe not, but we love you anyway. You are our brother Theon. Now, you still seem cold, so stay by the fire with Greywind while I do some more work at my desk.” Her tone was still gentle, but commanding and he did not argue with her.

He curled up on the sofa as soon as she stood, and was soon joined by Greywind who wrapped his whole body around Theon’s too-thin one.

“I should have known you would be a queen.” Theon yawned, his words still so quiet that Sansa had to strain to hear them, “You’ve always been bossy enough.”

* * *

“Sansa.” Bran’s voice called through the room and she instantly turned from the Maester to her little brother.

“What is it Bran?”

He rolled his chair over to her, and she would be forever grateful to Oberyn for providing him with that chair, it gave him a freedom of movement that they had all thought lost.

“We need to seal the crypts.”

Why ever would they need to seal the crypts? The only people who knew of the tunnels were those who were loyal, and besides it was unlikely that Winterfell was in any current danger, not while all the focus was on the threat of the Others.

She was going to voice her thoughts, to ask why exactly Bran thought they should waste man power and resources on such a thing, when he spoke again, in a light tone.

“Did you know why our family buries the dead with a sword? Why we speak of guarding against the night and releasing spirits at funerals? It’s a spell, one that keeps the dead from rising, except…” He trailed off and looked sheepish, “Except when Rickon and I left we took some of the swords, we broke the spell on some of the graves and if the Others get passed the Wall…”

He did not need to finish his sentence for Sansa to know what he meant, they had dead below them, dead which could easily become wights with weaponry in reach, weaponry that as soon as it was taken would increase the number of the dead. And they could not trust that the crumbing stone sarcophagi would be enough to hold them in place. He was right the crypts needed to be sealed, but first…

She raised her eyebrow in a silent question and her brother nodded and allowed her to take control of his chair. Before the crypts were sealed they would pay their respects to their family, for they might not get the chance again.

She looked up at her father’s statue, at his stern visage forever cast in stone and wondered if he would be proud of her, if he would have approved of the choices she had made. She wondered the same about her mother and Robb on occasion, but so many people told her that they would be proud, and yet none said the same about her father.

“Would father be disappointed in me, do you think?” Bran asked, sounding more like her brother than the deity that sometimes inhabited his body. “Because I ran away from my duty when they wanted to make me king?”

Sansa had never thought of it like that, and she knew that had her brother been proclaimed king then she probably would not have escaped Kings Landing, not when she was still only sister to the king instead of queen. Selfishly she had been glad that Bran had given up the throne, for it had allowed her to escape, and she was pleased on another level as well, for ruling was exhausting and not a stress she would put her brother under if she could help it.

“I think father would be proud of you.” She reassured him, “You did what you thought was best, and honestly I do not think father could ever be truly disappointed with us, well, maybe if we burnt Kings Landing to the ground, but not because we passed up on power.”

Bran smiled at her, “Thank you Sansa. You’re a good queen, you know. Everyone thinks so, and I don’t need visions to know that. Father would be proud of you too.”

Sansa smiled weakly, she had needed to hear that. Maybe if she heard it enough she would stop doubting herself.

Maybe.


	33. Brynden

When the sun did not rise the next morning they knew to be alert, that their period of waiting was over.

Men rushed about, placing the last of the wood in pyres ready to be lit when the wights were sighted, lighting braziers to keep people from freezing and rushing the last of the barrels of arrows up to the top of the Wall.

They would take out as many as they could before the wights reached the Wall, before they breached the gate so as to have the best chance.

Pitch as well went to the top, ready to be sued to light the arrows, no dragonglass had been wasted to make arrow heads, not when fire would work just as well for that purpose. No, all the dragonglass mined by the Vale and the North and the Westerlands had been used to make spear heads and daggers and swords so that the infantry had the best chance.

No cavalry would be used, they would be useless in the confined space of Castle Black’s courtyard, and while they had horses stabled those were for use of messengers and in the most dire case to be used as food.

They would soon be as prepared as they could be, and with everyone knowing their role to play, there was little to do but wait.

Wait and pray that they would live to see the dawn once more.

* * *

It was apparent that Benjen Stark should have been dead, the pallor of his skin and unhealed wounds were evidence enough of that. But there was more, a sort of aura of death around him, an aura that Jon sometimes sported as well, if he had spent too much time alone with his thoughts.

Brynden knew that Jon felt betrayed by Benjen, knew that he was hurt that Benjen had known the truth of his birth and never told him, and Brynden understood his feelings. But that did not mean he did not feel sympathy for Benjen, not when he knew that Benjen thought he would not survive the battles to come.

“Lord Benjen?” Brynden held a plate of hot food in his hands, he hoped to tempt his good-nephew into conversation and out of his brooding.

“Lord Brynden. Thank you, although I am unlikely to eat. I have found I have no great need to now.” Benjen said, allowing him into the chamber he had been assigned.

“Even if you don’t need to eat, hot food can still be a comfort, and something tells me you haven’t seen much of comfort thee past few years.” Brynden said knowingly.

Benjen sighed, “You would be right about that, and I fear I will not see it after this war, for whatever magic is keeping me alive is the same as that animating the wights. With them gone, I surely am as well.”

“Would you like to hear about you nieces and nephews?” Brynden offered, “So that if it is as you think and you do not live to see the dawn, you might tell you brother and sister how their children are doing.”

The wide eyed look of shock that Benjen sent him was a thing of beauty, “You know about Jon? But how?”

“Lord Reed told Sansa, who then told the rest of her siblings, but the rest of us did not find out until Aegon Targaryen visited Winterfell and the Kingslayer worked it out. Somehow Sansa manage to placate the lords, and none of them are too upset over the revelation, although the lack of reaction might be due to Jon having a husband and so being unable to pass on the Targaryen bloodline.”

It seemed that there was far too much information in that statement for Benjen to take it in properly, for he focused on the last few words.

“Jon has a husband?”

Brynden slung an arm around Benjen’s shoulders and smiled commiseratingly, “It seems that Sansa has inherited the bullheadedness of the Starks and Tullys, one of her very first pronouncements upon taking back Winterfell was to allow people to marry who they wished, regardless of gender, and did not seem to care that it would cause some outrage among her subjects. Jon took advantage of this and married a Free Folk man.”

Benjen shook his head, “It seems much has changed since I last stood on this side of the Wall.

“Much might have changed, but the kind hearts of your siblings’ children have not. Jon will come and see you soon, this I promise.” Brynden reassured, “He is just sulking at the moment.”

“The lad always was prone to sulking. Its nice to know that that at least has not changed.” The hint of a smile played on Benjen’s lips. “And I am pleased to hear that he is happy, even if it is with a Wildling of all people.”

There was exasperation in his tone, but no hate. Brynden still corrected him in the term he used for the Free Folk though, it made no sense to endanger an alliance over a single word.

"Well they are very happy, disgustingly so if Arya is to be believed. But then, she herself is not immune to the heart. She has quite the affection for one of her friends, and she does not dislike Robin Arryn either. Honestly, of all of them Sansa is the one with the least interest in others at the moment, despite the sheer magnitude of offers for her hand we have received."

Benjen grimaced, it seemed he was as unhappy with the thought of offers for Sansa's hand as Brynden was. 

"I did not get the chance to say it before, but thank you Brynden. For everything you have done for them." 

Brynden smiled at him, "I could have done nothing else."

* * *

They all knew that they might not survive until the dawn broke once more, that they might not win at all, and so they all tried to take a little comfort where they could.

Brynden had insisted that his those of his family there join him before the fight, so that they had some warmth to look upon in the coming days, so that they would not spend their time worrying over the battles to come.

They sat around the fire, mugs of ale in hand, just enjoying the companionship and familiarity borne of shared blood.

“Explain it to me, why it is that you two are knights but they aren’t.” Tormund said, gesturing to Brynden and Edmure and then Jon and Benjen. “Is it because yer ginger?”

Brynden watched with delight as Edmure actually spat out his drink at Tormund’s words, it was always entertaining when that happened.

“What?” Edmure spluttered.

“Well I’ve heard people calling the pair of you ‘ser’ and ‘lord’ but no one calls Jon or the crow ‘Ser’.” Tormund explained in what was probably meant to be a reasonable tone, “And the only difference I can see between yer, is that yer kissed by fire and the Starks aren’t.”

His logic did make sense in a strange way.

“Tormund, you’ve met other knights.” Jon said, “And none of them had red hair, Jaime fucking Lannister is a knight and his hair is yellow.”

Tormund seemed to think that over for a moment, “Be as that may, it does not answer my question. Why are they knights when you aren’t?”

“It’s because we follow the Seven, Tormund.” Brynden said, “While Jon and the rest of the Starks follow the Old Gods. And knights are followers of the Faith of the Seven so they don’t usually become knights.”

Jon rolled his eyes fondly, “Can you imagine what the reaction would have been if I’d been a knight when I met you?”

Tormund laughed uproariously, “Mance would have killed yer before yer even set foot in that tent. No one would have trusted you weren’t a ruddy southerner if you’d insisted on being a ‘ser’.”

Considering that he was talking about the death of his husband there was a large amount of joviality in Tormund’s tone.

“You know Giantsbane, I’ve just realised,” Benjen said as he leant forwards with a grin akin to Arya’s on his face, “You haven’t had anyone to tell you all those embarrassing stories of Jon as a pup.”

“And you will betray your own kin to tell me Crow?” Tormund said with a kind of cheerful animosity.

“Well considering that you married into the family its more like just passing on a story.” Benjen shook his head, “But why Jon, of all the Free Folk would you choose bloody Giantsbane? Did you just go for the man you thought would give your father and I the biggest heart attack if we knew? Especially because I know you knew his name from the stories I’ve told before.”

The idea of there being some sort of history between Benjen and Tormund was incredibly funny to Brynden, and from the laughter in Jon’s eyes he could see that he thought so as well.

“You sound jealous Crow.” Tormund laughed.

“Fuck off Giantsbane, do you want to hear the stories or not?”

Brynden had to admit he was curious to hear these stories too, not least because tales of mischief around Winterfell would tell him what to look out for in the future with Rickon.

Tormund nodded, and Jon hid his face in preparation for the embarrassment that was sure to come, Brynden thought he might reassure him after with tales of Edmure’s idiocy as a child, the time he thought it would be a good idea to hide Cat’s sewing kit was always good for a laugh.

“Well, my favourite has to be one in which Ned was almost in tear with laughter as he told me, Jon and Robb were maybe eight? Nine? And they had decided it would be an excellent idea to invite their little brother and sisters down into the crypts. Amazingly their plan was free of the influence of Theon Greyjoy, although from the way Ned told it that was because he had just discovered girls.” Benjen took a deep drink of his ale and Brynden wondered if this story was going to go the way he suspected it would. “Well, Robb brought little Sansa, Arya and Bran down to the crypts with the promise of playing a game and just as he was telling them a ghost story someone decided to jump out from behind a statue covered in flour and terrifying the living daylights out of his siblings.”

Th story did go the way that Brynden expected but Jon’s words made it so much better.

“Arya kicked me hard enough that my leg was bruised for near a month and told me off for scaring the baby, while Sansa ran out of the crypts screaming.” Jon said wistfully, “Father told us off and both Robb and I had to help in the kitchens for a week as punishment but we could tell he was trying not to laugh.”

They all laughed at that image, of Arya kicking Jon to defend Bran, and of the dour Ned Stark fighting back chuckles at the mischief of his children.

Edmure laughed hard as well, probably imagining his sister’s reaction to the whole thing, and Brynden knew it was his time to be embarrassed.

“I don’t know why you are laughing so hard Edmure, not when I too have tales to share. Such as the time you stole Cat’s embroidery basket…” Brynden started to speak as his nephew paled.

The joy of being the oldest one there meant that no one could get revenge on him for the stories he would tell.

* * *

Brynden curled his hand around the grip of his dragonglass sword, it had a core of steel to make it closer to the weight he was used to but it did not yet feel like an extension of his arm despite the amount of training he had done with it.

Equally as strange to his senses was the weight of his leather wrapped armour, the heavy furs that were necessary so he did not freeze but which stunted his movement.

He led his niece’s men in her place, there was no need for him to lead the Tully contingent, not when Edmure was there. Should he fall then Jon would take his place, and should Edmure fall Brynden would take his. It was a chain of command that would go on and on until they had won or were all dead.

It was one of the many things they had worked out, along with who would be the one to carry the message to Winterfell and order the evacuation should they fail.

But for now they stood, waiting, watching the doors as they held off the undead. Waiting as the archers picked off as many as they could before the way under the Wall fell.

There was a great crash and everyone jumped. The first gate had fallen.

“Steady now, steady.” Brynden called out to his men, “Stand strong.”

The warm orange glow of the fire light glinted off of the black blades and spear tips of their weapons, and other than the sound of claws scrabbling at the gateway and the crackle of burning wood it was silent.

And then a terrible splintering sound, a glimpse of bright blue eyes, glowing in an unearthly manner. Skeletal hands and fleshless fingers reaching through the splintering wood, uncaring of the shards impaling them.

And then, and then, the gate fell fully and the hoards on the undead came rushing through.

Unearthly screams and screeches filled the air as the hoards rushed to them and Brynden raised his sword.

“For Westeros!” He cried, a cry that was taken up by men of every kingdom, up and down the Wall.

His sword clashed against a wight, gifting it with the chance to finally rest and his teeth pulled back into a snarl.

The Battle for the Dawn had come.


	34. Jon

Exhaustion filled every bone of his body, a deep, exhaustion that slowed his movements and blurred his vision. An exhaustion only countered by the adrenaline in his blood stream and the knowledge that if he let up his guard for even a minute he would surely perish.

The persistent darkness and knowledge that the dawn would not come until they had succeeded wearied them further, as much as the extortion of the fighting itself.

The gates beneath the Wall had fallen at the end of the first day, the sheer mass of bodies hacking at them and pressing against them splintering the ironwood into thousands of pieces. From what little they had heard, every gate had fallen, every fort now faced fighting on the ground.

Jon dreaded to think of what would have happened if they did not have the alliances and support of the rest of Westeros, if it was just the North facing the undead.

They fought and rested in shifts, unable to do anything else as the battle dragged into its fifth day. Or what the Maesters assured everyone was the fifth day. Jon had long lost any true sense of time.

The only saving grace was that the tunnel beneath the Wall was a perfect choke point, one that prevented them from being completely overrun.

For all it was dark outside and the sun did not shine, it was easy to see what was happening. The braziers they had lit and the burning piles of the dead provided light enough that you could almost trick yourself it was day.

Almost.

They burnt the dead as quick as they were cut down but what from little news they had from the rest of Westeros any of the Others that passed the Wall, even for a short time reanimated the dead.

Noises had been heard from Winterfell’s crypts and Jon shuddered at the thought of Robb or Father being brought back as wights, of the bones of his mother or uncle coming back from their slumber.

It seemed that they were not the only ones on whom the sun did not shine, even as far south as Dorne the days and nights were indistinguishable, the darkness total, the dead rising and falling in waves.

The destruction whether they won or lost would be immense, the loss of life terrible, but if they won they would recover. They had to.

The horn blew and Jon pulled himself to his feet, it was his turn at the gate again, his turn to lead the troops against the undead. His turn to fight for his life again.

He nodded at the equally weary men who were joining him, they all had tired eyes set in grim faces, their armour scuffed and splattered with mud and other, less savoury fluids.

They charged in, exchanging places with the faltering troops whose turn it was to rest. Troops who dragged their dead with them to burn on the pyres that never went out.

Jon nodded at Brynden, a curt nod, one that conveyed so much. One that conveyed a hope to see the other again, to see the other without eyes of an unnatural blue.

He raised his sword in a movement that was near pure muscle memory and stated to reduce the wights that rushed him to dust, the Valyrian steel of Longclaw sending them back to their eternal sleep.

His blade hit against another with a movement that jarred his arm, and he looked up at his new opponent. Icy eyes looked back at him, set in a face as cold as a glacier, surrounded by translucent hair.

One of the Others has crossed the Wall, and even as he pressed his blade against its, the men that had fallen began to rise again.

He needed to kill it quickly, needed to stop it before they were completely overwhelmed.

The thought solidified something in him, his exhaustion was suddenly at the back of his mind instead of the forefront, the aching in his muscles had all but disappeared.

With his newfound strength he pushed back, and managed to untangle his sword from his opponent’s.

There was a strangled whimper from behind him and Jon turned to help but he was too late. A lad he knew to be the same age as Sansa had the tip of a rusty blade protruding from his back and as he collapsed Jon realised to his horror he recognised the Wight.

It was dressed in the black of the Watch, one of the brothers who had died at the Fist of the First Men. A brother Jon had trained with, had eaten with, and he had just killed a boy barely old enough to be part of the war.

But there was no time to mourn, not when the stream of wights coming beneath the Wall was never ceasing.

He forced his arms to raise his sword once more and faced the next opponent, as he would do until the bell rang and he was relieved or until his defence was caught lacking and he joined father and Robb.

* * *

By the time the horn blew again there was a haze at the edge of his vision and he knew his movements had slowed. Jon and his men began to retreat, to be replaced by the Umber men whose turn it was to take up the fight.

He nodded at each of his men that had survived, in acknowledgement of their continued success, their continued life. Some headed to the healing stations, others to the hall where food was continuously being churned out, the rest to find somewhere to collapse for a few brief hours sleep.

An arm wrapped around Jon and he sagged into the support it offered.

“Come on, pretty crow, let’s get you fed.” Tormund murmured softly, as he gently steered Jon towards the food hall.

Tormund would be leading the other half of the men beholden to the Dreadfort when the next horn blew, and they wanted to spend the next hour together, just in case.

He was led to a table near the hearth and pushed gently to sit on the bench while Tormund went to collect food.

Minutes or hours could have passed before Tormund returned, Jon did not know. His gaze was focused on the scratches and dents on the table before him, the noise of the hall blending into a buzz.

A bowl of stew, thin but so hot it was steaming, was placed in front of him, disrupting his examination of the table.

“You need to eat.” Tormund said, sitting heavily next to him with his own bowl of stew.

Jon leaned into his bulk and allowed a spoon to be pressed into his hand. Slowly he started to eat, he could not taste the food but the heat of it warmed him from the inside out and the presence of Tormund reminded him of why they were fighting.

“I saw a brother I had trained, he cut down a boy in front of me, would have cut me down too.” Jon finally said in a flat voice. He knew that if he examined too closely some of the faces of the wights he had cut down he would be unable to rest, for so many of them had worn the black of the Watch and it was likely he had broken bread with them when they were still alive.

“Aye, I know what yer mean. It is a terrible thing to recognise a wight.” Tormund said, he grimaced at the food, “I thought that lover of yer uncle had made them put flavour in this food, although for the life of me I cannot taste it.”

The faintest smile found its way to Jon’s lips, likely the response Trmund had wished for with his words.

“Do yer think my Torva has driven yer sister to cursing yet? Or will it be Munda?”

“If anything Arya is the one driving the others mad. She and Rickon could drive anyone to grey hair, without even trying sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Osha comes back with hair as white as snow and Ygritte tries to blame it on me.” Jon knew that Ygritte would do such a thing, she delighted in making him squirm.

Tormund grinned at him, an expression that was almost out of place, but comforting because it meant that not everything had changed despite the exhaustion that permeated everything.

The warning horn blew and Jon knew he had but a few precious minutes left with Tormund by his side. He clung to his husband’s hand as Tormund went to finish putting on his armour, he could not even appreciate the sigil etched into the leather, the wolf of their House, the one made to look like Ghost.

With a strength that surprised him Jon pulled Tormund’s head down to him and crushed his lips against his own in a harsh kiss.

“You come back to me husband. Do what you must but please, come back to me.” He all but pleaded, his eyes desperately scanned Tormund’s face, committing to memory those features he so loved in case it was the last time he saw them.

“I will do my best Jon, this I promise you.”

Tormund brought their lips together once more, but this kiss held none of the urgency of the previous, no, it was soft and sweet, a promise of love and tenderness, and when Tormund pulled back Jon could feel wetness prickling at his eyes.

He watched as his husband left to join his troops, as he offered words of encouragement and hid his own exhaustion, and once more Jon was filled with love for him.

But now all he could do was wait for his return.

* * *

Jon was restless while Tormund was fighting, he could not rest knowing that his husband might not return to his side, could not sleep with the fear that when he awoke it might be to terrible news. So instead he wandered around the castle, offering words of encouragement or comfort to the men he encountered.

His feet brought him to the hall they had set aside for healing, where men lay on pallets to either be healed or for their passing to be eased. The smell of blood and smoke and herbs filled the air, and the floor was ever so slightly tacky underfoot.

Groans and moans and whimpers and prayers could be heard from all directions, along with the soft soothing and brusque instructions of maesters, healers and nurses as they tried to ease the pain of their patients.

Each of them held a dragonglass dagger, to put through the heart of any of the patients that died, a terrible thing for someone who had devoted their life to healing to do, but one needed to prevent a massacre.

Jon raised a hand in greeting to Sam and started to move around the patients, before stopping at the bedside of a man he had not expected to see.

“Here to gloat Snow?” Ser Alliser croaked up at him, bloodstained bandages wrapped around his chest.

“Why would I do such a thing?” Jon answered, he perched to the side of Ser Alliser, from the look of things his wound was mortal and if exchanging barbs eased his passing then that was something he could do.

“You hate me Snow.”

“I don’t hate you, merely the fact that you still have not managed to teach Ghost how to juggle.”

Ser Alliser let out a choking, rattling laugh at those words and quite against his will Jon felt his mouth forming a smile. It was an amusing image, no doubt about that.

It seemed though, that the exertion of laughing had caused greater damage to Ser Alliser’s wounds, for fresh red bloomed on the bandages and his breath became even more laboured.

“Would you like me to get you some milk of the poppy for the pain?” Jon offered quietly.

Ser Alliser shook his head, “Others have more need of it than I. Can you tell me what your sister plans to do with the Watch after the war is over?”

Jon thought long and hard about that question, it was not something that had ever really come up in their discussions, the Watch had always existed, and yet it could not be denied that when the war was over its purpose would have been served.

“I do not know what my sister wishes, but I do know what I will recommend.” He answered slowly, “The Watch will need to change, I would ask them to run a trading post of sorts, between the North and the Free Folk, but I would not have it destroyed.”

Ser Alliser’s face seemed to settle at that, as though a fear had been soothed, and in a way, Jon supposed, it had. Ser Alliser had spent most of his life in service of the Night’s Watch, and he likely would not wish for it to be destroyed.

“What’s it like Snow?” Ser Alliser asked him, his breaths slowing and his voice even more rasping than before, “Death, what is it like?”

In truth Jon did not remember death, although whether that was due to his resurrection or because there was truly nothing to remember, he did not know. He would not say that however, not to a man asking for comfort in his final minutes, not when he knew that others were listening.

“Its like a hot bath on sore muscles, a soothing feeling, one filled with love and a lack of pain.” He said slowly, painting a picture with his words, “A place where you are surrounded by your family and friends who have gone before you, where nothing hurts and old wounds are forgotten. It’s a never-ending peace.”

The slightest smile formed on Ser Alliser’s face and his breathing continued to slow until it had stopped altogether. A sense of loss filled Jon’s chest at that, Ser Alliser had been a fixture at the Wall when he had arrived, and it had always felt like he would be.

A motioned to a healer when he was sure the Lord Commander had gone, and they came forwards with their blade of dragonglass, to pierce his heart and ensure his rest was unbroken.

A slight snarl reached his ears, joining the other sounds of pain and loss that filled the room. He ignored the snarl to begin with, sure it was just a snarl of pain from a bone being set or a wound being cleaned. But then it took on a distinct tone, and formed into an unholy screech instead.

Jon turned to face the wight in the healing rooms, the result of a man passing without being noticed, without their heart being pieced by dragonglass to keep them dead, and one of the Others passing the Wall somewhere along its great length. He was too late to react however as it flung itself off of the pallet it had been laying on and towards the nearest person, its hands bend into claws and its teeth gnashing.

The closest person to it had been a man in the black of the Watch, one who had been bending over to check on the corpse it had been. A man who was too slow with his cheeks and who was now paying the price as its teeth sank into his neck.

Jon vaulted over the pallets of dying men, Longclaw in his hand, moving before any of the others could think too for his nerves were still high strung from battle. He paid little mind to the man the wight was attacking and more on stopping it from harming anyone else, from the whimpering coming from the one who had been attacked there was little chance of his survival. Not unless he had the Stranger’s own luck.

As he pieced Longclaw through the side of the wight he sent thanks to all the Gods that he did not recognise the wight, that it was not a former brother or a friend he needed to kill. It collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, its teeth still locked into the neck of its victim.

The tunnel vision from the short fight left him and Jon suddenly recognised the victim, how could he not, for it was a man he had happily called brother, one he had broken bread with and taught to hold a sword. One who had called himself craven but who was one of the bravest men that Jon knew.

It was Sam who was breathing his last, his eyes slowly glazing with death as breath wheezed out from the hole in his neck. His expression was panicked as his lungs filled with blood and at the pain from the teeth in his neck.

Jon dropped to his knees beside Sam, and clasped his hand in his own, he would offer comfort to his friend and brother in his last few moments if he could.

“Jon… Gilly…” Sam wheezed, his eyes pleading in a was his words could not.

“I’ll make sure Gilly is safe Sam, and her babe as well. I’ll make her a part of mine own household; she won’t ever have to worry.” Jon reassured, “Gilly will be cared for, and I will tell her of your bravery.”

A weak twitch of Sam’s lips, in what would have been a smile had he not been so pained, “Hurts.”

“I know, it’ll be over soon. I’ll tell your mother and sister that you went with honour and bravery fitting of your name.” He desperately tried to comfort Sam, but he was unsure if his words did or not.

It did not matter though for almost as soon as Jon had finished speaking Sam breathed his last. His eyes unseeing and pale, and though he hated to do it Jon took Sam’s own dagger and used it to pierce his friend’s heart. He would not see those eyes glow that unnatural blue.

“Farewell my friend and brother.” He murmured and he gently closed Sam’s eyes.

If it wasn’t for the raw wound in his neck, Sam would almost appear asleep. Jon’s heart clenched once more and he fled the healing rooms, he did not think he could deal with another loss without it cracking in two.

He forced a brave face on though as he left, if he looked like he thought they might be losing, like the battle was taking a toll, then it might start a panic. They did not need a panic, not when their victory would be close as it was.

* * *

Jon rushed to the courtyard when the bell rang once more, anxious for news of Tormund. If the news was bad then he wanted it immediately rather than clinging to false hope.

He anxiously scanned every face that passed him, for some sign or hint of Tormund’s fate in their expressions. He saw no pity on their faces, and that reassured him, as did the sheer number of men passing him by, if so many had survived, surely if the news was bad one of them would have told him?

And then his husband appeared, caked in grime and splashed with blood, both the red of the living and the black of the wights. His face was heavily lined with exhaustion, but there was also something else there, something deeper.

With horror Jon realised it was grief, Tormund was grieving for someone who had fallen.

“Tormund? What is it?” Jon asked, softly, as though he was approaching a wounded animal.

“Its, its Karsi.” He said, looking at Jon with eyes that were wet with unshed tears. “She fell, took a blade to the gut that was meant for me.”

Jon’s heart broke at the pain in his voice, at the sense of loss, while Tormund and Karsi were not in love, there was still love between them. Her death meant that Tormund’s daughters were now motherless, but it was more than that, for Karsi had been a good person and a good friend, and her loss would be felt by many.

Tears began to slip from Tormund’s eyes and Jon took hold of his arm to lead him to their room so that he could mourn and rest in peace.

He gently led his husband through the corridors and up the stairs until they reached the room they had been assigned, there he acted as a squire would and gently removed armour until Tormund was left in just his undertunics and small clothes. He gently wiped them both down with a soft cloth and cool water, it would not remove all the grime and ore, but it was better than doing nothing.

With them as clean as he could make them with his limited supplies, Jon guided Tormund into their furs and climbed in with him, tucking the furs around them both to create a cocoon of warmth. Tormund latched onto him, he tucked Jon against his chest, like he was fearful to let him go. Jon did not say anything, words would be useless, he merely allowed Tormund to take what comfort he could in his presence.

In the darkness they all had to take what comfort they could until it was their turn to fight again.


	35. Bran

Bran had been having strange dreams, ones he could not remember the whole of, but instead fragments. A desert in flames, sails of black and red, a pyramid dripping with blood, a man with lips as blue as Arryn banners, and over all of them a screeching sound that left his ears ringing even after he awoke.

It scared him, because over all of these images was a sense of anger and cruelty and a terrible, terrible sanity. Whoever was committing those actions was completely aware of all their actions and seemed to relish in the flames.

There had been a change in his dreams though, since the Long Night had begun, he saw people dressed in clothes from centuries before. A man with a sword he plunged into the heart of someone he loved, only to draw it out wreathed in flames.

He saw the flaming sword cut through reams of faceless enemies under a flurry of falling weirwood leaves and plumes of smoke. Tears ran down the man’s face, but Bran could not see any of his features, just the loss and anger he extruded.

And as he looked into the colourless eyes of the man he saw the smoke of battlefields, of a burning city, smoke surrounding a man screaming in his armour as the spurs melted off it. He saw the salt of tears, of the tears of a thousand widows and orphans, of a woman in a bed in a room stinking of roses as she screamed and screamed. He could hear a thousand voices speaking at once, calling out for their saviour, for _Azor Azhai_. For the Prince who was Promised, who would bring back the dawn.

He would wake with the feeling that something was coming, a turning point, a feat that could end the war or end them all. And the knowledge and memory of Bloodraven’s words, that the die was cast and there was nothing he could do, that anything he attempted could only make things worse, never better.

Not that he could warg near the battle anyway to make a difference, his siblings and uncles had all forbidden it after he had told them how the crowned Other had seemed to recognise him and had tried to kill him. They told him it was not the job of a boy who had yet to see his tenth name day to participate in battle, which Bran thought stupid, but he did not argue, not when it was not essential he did so. 

If it had been then he would, despite his family's words, and hang the consequences. 

* * *

Bran waited by the archery butts for his teacher, his sister had informed him that she expected him to do something worthwhile with his time, now that the Maester was too preoccupied to give him lessons. Apparently staring creepily at people and driving the Kingslayer half to madness with paranoia was not a good use of his time.

Personally Bran disagreed with that, and he knew that Arya and Rickon would have too, were they here. His teacher did as well, he found some of Bran’s attempts to weird out the people of Winterfell highly entertaining, not that he would admit it to Sansa.

“So have you done any archery since your fall?” Theon asked as he approached, the bow in his hands and careless way he asked the question reminiscent of the last time he had taught Bran.

“No, everyone was too distracted to try and find a way, or too busy to be able to help me.” Bran answered, ignoring the other reason why he had not had lessons since then.

From the grimace on Theon’s face, he too was trying not to think of one of the reasons that Bran had not had lessons since his fall.

“Well then, I assume you remember how to hold a bow?” Theon asked. He held out the one in his hands to Bran, although Bran looked at it doubtfully, for it was smaller than the one he had begun to learn with.

He took hold of it, and was surprised by the weight of it, the lightness compared to the long bows he had learned with before.

“It’s a cavalry bow.” Theon explained, “I do not have the grip or strength required to use a long bow any more, and you do not have the arm length or reach to use one.”

Bran supposed Theon’s explanation made sense, it would be strange for him to use a long bow, especially considering they could be near as tall as a full grown man and he would never be able to reach that height. Similarly if he was to use a bow it would be on horse back, and so he should really learn with that in mind.

He pulled the string back hesitantly but did not release it, to do so would be bad for the bow, he remembered that much.

There must have been something on his face, some hesitancy or worry for Theon’s next words were spoken with an uncommon gentleness.

“We do not have to do these lessons, you know. I’m aware Sansa wants you to do something with your time, but you do not have to do these lessons just to please her.”

Bran swallowed, and he set his face into a look of determination, “I want to. I want to be useful and not just the Queen’s crippled brother, I want to be able to do something like other men.”

“Well then, shall we start?” Theon said, his tone still gentle, but his fingers sure as he placed them correctly on the bow.

An hour or so passed of Bran attempting to shoot in the light of the braziers, and of Theon gently adjusting his grip and stance. When they finished, they moved closer to one of the braziers to warm themselves.

“Does your sister really know how to do the fingerdance?” Bran asked, it was something he had been curious about since he had heard complaints about not being allowed to learn it from Arya. “Because if she does, that’s slightly scary.”

“Aye, she does. And haven’t you learned by now: all sisters are terrifying?” Theon said, a hint of his old laughter in his eyes.

Bran grinned back, “Asha is scarier than Sansa, Sansa doesn’t have an axe that she refers to as her ‘lover’.”

“I don’t know.” Theon tapped his chin in mock contemplation, “Sansa can be scary when she wants to be, and Arya always makes me worried that she’s just going to stab someone in broad daylight one day.”

Laughter bubbled up from Bran’s chest at that, he too thought that Arya would stab someone one day, but whoever it was would probably deserve it.

“I’m sorry, you know.” Theon said, suddenly serious, “For forcing you to leave, for taking your home. I’m sorry for all of it.”

Bran sobered and looked over Theon, looked over the stripes of skin that were a different colour from where they had been flayed, the missing fingers, the features that were still too thin, and the hair that had gone white from stress and malnutrition. He did not hate Theon for taking Winterfell, he never had. He had felt betrayed, that someone he though of as a brother could do such a thing, but he had never hated him.

“I know.” Bran replied, “I felt betrayed at first but, no one can deny you haven’t paid for your mistakes. And I don’t know what I would have done in your place.”

Theon smiled at him, a small, genuine smile, and Bran smiled back.

He hadn’t known how good it would feel to finally voice those thoughts. If he had, he might have done so when he first saw Theon again.

* * *

“Ser Jaime.” Bran said, a smiled played about his mouth at the hint of fear that raced the golden knight’s face.

Ser Jaime was completely safe, no matter what accusations Bran might lay against him, for he was too valuable to be executed, but sometimes the knight forgot that. And Bran had always been what his older siblings affectionately referred to as ‘a brat’.

“Prince Bran.” The Kingslayer bowed awkwardly, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Bran smiled fully, an expression he knew did little to put the Kingslayer at ease, “I’m bored and don’t want to bother my sister. She worries at the moment. I need your help, and it might take your mind off of Lady Brienne.”

Ser Jaime startled at that, as though his feelings for the lady were some great secret instead of something the whole of Winterfell knew.

“As you wish.” He said, and began to push Bran’s chair where he directed him.

Bran told him to go to the Sept, they were unlikely to be disturbed there, and perhaps the peace of it would make his conversation with Ser Jaime easier for the both of them. Or at the least the stern faces of the Seven might make Ser Jaime more truthful than he would have been otherwise.

“Burn them all.” Bran said suddenly once they were settles, breaking the tense silence that had sprung up between them

The Kingslayer paled, whatever he had been expecting to hear from Bran, it certainly was not that.

“Did you know, Ser Jaime, that when you first rode into Winterfell my brothers thought you looked the part of king, far more than Robert Baratheon ever did.” Bran said conversationally, “I do wonder, my lord, why you allowed people to brand you ‘Kingslayer’ without revealing the reason you did it. You would have been a hero, you could have been king, instead you were reviled.”

Ser Jaime shot him a look filled with hate and bitterness, “Because your father, the oh so honourable Eddard Stark took one look at me and decried me as a man of no honour, as an oathbreaker and the vilest sort of man.”

“And you let that stop you. You let someone else choose your fate, the way you let your sister choose your fate. The way you are still letting her influence you.” Bran was merciless in his accusations.

“Why the fuck should you care? I pushed you out a window. I attacked your father in the streets of Kings Landing. The whole reason for the war in the first place was because I fucked my twin sister. I’m a Kingsguard who killed his King, and the only part of that oath I have not broken is to hold lands.”

Bran cocked his head like one of the wolves as he examined the emotions on the Kingslayer’s face, the man was angry, and guilty, and hurt.

“Brienne doesn’t think so.” He pointed out, half wanting to see if he could rile Lannister up even further.

To his slight disappointment Ser Jaime seemed to deflate at those words and the Kingslayer glared angrily at the floor as he responded.

“Yeah well she has shit taste in men.”

There was something completely absurd about the whole situation. About being sat in a Sept with Jaime Lannister of all people and their discussion ending up on the topic of Brienne of Tarth’s taste in men of all things.

Bran looked at the completely despondent form of the Kingslayer and found that he could not push any further, no matter how much he might have wanted to for the things he had done to Bran’s family. It wasn’t in the way he had been raised to be so vindictive and cruel as to keep pushing.

“You are safe here, you know. Sansa promised your safety and she always keeps her word. As long as you don’t hurt anyone under her protection you will be safe here. Safer than in Kings Landing, safer than on the battlefield.”

Ser Jaime scoffed at his words, but there was something in his eyes, almost like he was pleased to be away from the pit of vipers that was the Red Keep.

“You say that Stark, but in Kings Landing I am far less likely to freeze to death.”

Bran laughed, “If its so cold then I’m sure you won’t mind doing some additional exercise. While my chair is excellent, I do have a problem with stairs, and I think you could help me with that. You are the reason I need a chair after all.”

The Kingslayer looked at him, as though gauging his sincerity before he sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face.

“Fine. It’s not like I have anything better to be doing anyway.”

Bran struggled to hide his grin at the agreement, Tyene had not believed him that he could get the Kingslayer to carry him up the stairs and now she would owe him ten stags.

It was a very satisfying result indeed.

* * *

The bitter, all-encompassing cold of the unending night had everyone curling together, sharing beds and warmth and what little comfort they could. Bran had moved into Sansa’s chambers, just as he knew that the chambers that had once been their mother’s had been offered to the Southern ladies who cared for Sansa. It was not a move that would have occurred in peacetime, but mother’s chambers were the warmest in the castle and they had no Northern blood to keep them warm in the Winter.

And if Lady Ellaria used the closeness to be able to help when he or Sansa had nightmares, that was not something that anyone would admit to in their waking hours.

The old Bran, the one who had not fallen, would have complained about sharing with his sister, but now he relished her closeness. The safety he felt from knowing that there was another of his pack there, within his reach.

Having both Lady and Summer there as well was a bonus, the pair of wolves acted as furry heaters which helped keep them cosy and warm.

“Sansa,” Bran whispered to his older sister as he moved closer to her.

“What is it?” She asked sleepily.

“I’m scared.”

Sansa sat up and pulled him to her side so that when she laid back down he was tucked against her. The weight of her arm over his side was comforting, and for a moment the tickle of her braid against his nose made him think he was in a happier time, where he had slipped into his mother’s bed for comfort against the nightmares of a child.

“You don’t need to be scared Bran,” Sansa murmured into his hair, “No harm will come to you or Arya or Rickon while Jon and I are alive. While Uncle Brynden and Uncle Edmure are alive. We simply will not allow it.”

Her words were comforting, as comforting as the heartbeat under his ear and the soft breaths that moved his hair, they were a reminder that his family was alive and fighting for them all. That they would not be left behind as they had been before, when Robb had called the banners and Mother had run off to try and bring justice to his attacker.

He trusted Sansa and Jon to not abandon them like that, not when they too had been abandoned in some way. Bran could not quite trust his uncles not to leave them, but his siblings he could trust. His siblings who had made the people who had betrayed their family pay for their sins, his siblings who even now fought to bring justice for their father.

Bran shifted his head so that he could hear Sansa’s heartbeat more clearly and slowly he drifted off into sleep, a sleep that for once was untroubled by dreams of fire and blood but of a pack of wolves playing in the soft sun of spring, the scent of roses in the air, and the taste of lemons on his tongue.


	36. Jon

By the seventh day the battle seemed hopeless, unwinnable, a useless endeavour. For every wight they cut down it seemed a new one would rise, and as their ranks decreased so the army of the undead increased.

So many had been lost, good honest men and those for whom that moniker did not apply, cut down by wights and the corpses of their friends. If they somehow survived this, Jon knew that all over Westeros the nights would be filled with screams for decades to come.

He both dreaded and longed for the horn that would summon him to the battlefield once more, dreaded the thought of leading his men into danger, leading men he was responsible to their deaths; and yet his presence on the battlefield meant his friends and family were not fighting, that they were safe for another few hours.

He ran his hands gently over Tormund’s side, over the bandages covering the gash he had received from an Other’s sword. Had the gash been any deeper it would have killed him and Jon’s heart clenched in agonising pain at the thought of such a thing. At the memory of the blood staining Tormund’s clothes as he left the battlefield, too wet to be anything but fresh, and the way his husband had stumbled as he walked with the pain.

An absent part of Jon’s mind wondered if that was how Lady Catelyn had felt when she had heard that Father had been imprisoned, when she heard he had been accused of treason. He wondered if she had feared for him when Father’s leg was injured by the same man who currently resided in Winterfell with a minimally protected Bran and Sansa.

A large hand carded through his curls, soothing Jon from his racing thoughts.

“It’s just a flesh wound.” Tormund said gently, “I was lucky, luckier than most.”

He continued to card his fingers through Jon’s hair, and Jon found himself almost purring at the attention, the comforting movement. He likely would have done so were he not waiting for the horn that would summon him to fight once more, to wait for the horn that could very well be calling him to his death.

“I know.” Jon turned his head so he could press his face into Tormund’s neck, “I just don’t know what I would do if I lost you.”

Tormund’s hand stilled for a moment and he pressed a kiss to the top of Jon’s head, before continuing with his soft stroking.

“You would do the same thing I would do if, Gods forbid, I lost you. You would live, Pretty Crow, you would mourn for a while, but you would laugh and spend time with your family, and maybe even find love once more. And then, when you die in your bed an old man, surrounded by people u love and who love you, then I will be waiting to greet you with an embrace and to hear your story.”

His words lulled Jon into a calmer state, soothed him so that his worries seemed distant.

He could savour these moments, commit them to memory, just as he knew Tormund was doing the same. That way love would continue to sustain them until their reunion, whether that be in this life, or the next.

* * *

The face that was before Jon was mangled, was rotting and damaged by the cold, but there was no questioning who it was. It was the face of a man he had served for months, had saved the life of, had looked up to. It was the man who had given him his sword.

The wight had once been Jeor Mormont, and it was still clad in the blacks of the Lord Commander. As Jon stared at it, that familiar face, the face of his mentor began to blur, until he could have sworn that his father stood there instead, that it was Ned Stark come back.

It was a terrible thing to see, a terrible trick to have played by his own eyes. Jon had to screw up al his courage to lift Longclaw against the wight, against this man he had respected and looked up to.

It felt wrong, like a betrayal of the worst kind to raise Longclaw against the man who had given it to him, the man who had taught him duty as surely as his father had.

His hands trembled with more than just the cold and exhaustion, and he sent up a prayer to the Old Gods for forgiveness as he faced his old mentor. Longclaw did not waver in his grip though, not when he knew he had no choice but to face the wight.

“Forgive me.” He whispered as he pierced Longclaw through the wight’s heart, as the ancestral sword of House Mormont sent its former lord back into the eternal embrace of death.

The wight collapsed and it may have been a trick of the flickering flames that lit the night, but Jon thought he might have seen a look of peace cross the Old Bear’s face.

There was no time to mourn though, no time to weep for the dead as yet more came through the broken gates. This time though, Jon did not look at their faces as he cut them down, he did not know if he could bear it should he have to kill another person he had known. If he saw Grenn or Pyp or Edd, even if he saw Orell or Qhorin or Bown Marsh, he thought he might break at the horror of it. 

It was a terrible thing to cut down someone whose name and face you did know. 

* * *

There was a sudden lull in the number of wights, a suspicious lull, a lull that accompanied another drop in the temperature.

Jon gripped his sword a little tighter and felt a burst of nervous energy fill his veins. Whatever was coming, he would be prepared.

A figure stepped out from beneath the Wall, a pale figure with shards of ice emerging from its skull, twinned with a Circlet of dead Weirwood leaves.

The figure Bran had mentioned.

It cut down any man that tried to take it down with an ease of movement that sparked fear on the faces of every man Jon could see. Each movement of the figure was effortless, with a predatory grace that reminded Jon of the way that Ghost stalked his prey.

He could not let his men be cut down without trying himself, without attempting to face the figure head on.

His sword was Valyrian steel, forged in the crucible of a dragon’s fire, whetted with the blood of thousands of foes. Perhaps it would succeed where dragonglass did not.

And if it didn’t, if he fell, perhaps he could give a fight that would grant a few moments more to the people he loved, a few moments for them to live, maybe enough time even for them to flee to Essos where the sun surely still shone.

He wrenched Longclaw from the chest of the wight it had just pierced and started to stalk forwards. He carelessly stabbed at the wights in his way, cutting through them like a scythe cuts through grass.

But he was too careless, too inattentive of his surroundings for he tripped over a body and was saved from truly falling by Longclaw catching onto something. A something that let out a grunt of pain as Longclaw slid through it.

Jon looked up and saw a sight so horrifying he almost could not believe it, his uncle stood before him. Benjen being the thing that Longclaw had caught on, his chest impaled by the sword, his very heart struck with the steel blade.

His inattention to his surroundings had made him a Kinslayer, had killed his uncle.

He withdrew the sword and watched in horror as his uncle collapsed to the floor, his wound as dry as those of the wights. Benjen smiled up at him, a smile of relief and peace as Longclaw erupted in flames, ones that wreathed the blade in a fierce blue glow like something out of legend.

“I do not blame you nephew. This was necessary. But remember Jon,” Benjen croaked, “Winter comes for everyone in the end.”

His uncle’s eyes dulled and Jon was left staring at his corpse, the sword still burning in his hand.

He sent a prayer to the Gods, the Old and the New, the Drowned God and the Fire God, that his uncle’s death would not be in vain. That his death would mean that the sun would come again and the winter would be mild.

He turned towards the Other, his expression set in a snarl of pain and loss and fury. One wrong step and he would fall into the pit of madness of the Targaryens, but if he could keep it together, keep his emotions on that razors edge, then it would be as powerful as a blizzard.

The unearthly glow of his sword seemed to fill the hearts of his men, and they fought with even greater ferocity against the undead.

He raised his sword and rushed at the Other, letting out a howl that sounded more wolf than man.

Winter would come for everyone, and the fury of the wolf defending its pack was not to be forgotten.

A path seemed to clear for him, a way through the crowd of the battle, a path directly to his target. Jon did not know if the path was cleared for him or if he cleared it himself, all his focus was on reaching the Other with the Weirwood leaves around his head. The Other that he had promised Bran he would kill.

Longclaw smashed against the icy blade of the Other, its blue flames started to cause the shards of its crown to drip and begin to melt. He could feel that his lips were pulled back in a terrible snarl, more wolf than man as he fought.

He raised the blade once more and it was like his teachers were there with him, guiding his blows. A parry of Ser Rodrick’s, a swipe like Robb’s, a thrust that was all his father’s, a block from Jory and a final sidestep from Arya. Each move fluid and keeping him alive just a moment longer, just until an opening came. Each move his family’s protection flowing through him, their hands guiding his own.

And then, a slash that was all his own, one that took the head from the shoulder’s of the Other with one fell swoop.

There was a moment of silence, a terrible moment, in which the whole world seemed to stop, in which it seemed at though the cold had won and the world was frozen.

A ghastly screech rent the air and destroyed the moment, everything seemed to come alive against at once. The fighting began again, but those wights still standing seemed less coordinated, seemed to turn upon each other as much as upon the living.

And it was as if the death of the crowned Other had sent more strength through the veins of the living, for even as the horn blew indicating that it was their turn to rest, Jon’s men kept fighting, as though they could see the end in sight.

Perhaps they could.

Nothing seemed to change however, the wights still came towards them in a never ceasing stream, for a few terrifying moments it seemed as though their hope was in vain, that the increased will to fight was simply exhausting them further, that there was no end in sight, just more of the same hopeless, constant battle against overwhelming numbers.

And then the most beautiful sight, a single streak of orange across the sky, brighter than flames, more lovely than a flower for what it represented. A colour that would be remembered by all those who had seen it for the sheer joy that it brought them, a colour that would soon be replicated and used by so many to decorate themselves and their living space in the hope of replicating that singular feeling.

But that would be in the future, and as the fighting died down, as wights collapsed to the ground, unaided by the swords of men, so too did more shades fill the sky, pinks and yellows and oranges of hues, so many it was impossible to name them all, until it seemed as though the sky itself was celebrating in its feast day best.

The colours bathed everything in a gentle light, softening the harsh edges and the horror of the battlefield, and even those in a pain so severe they knew they had no hope for survival felt a smile form at the sight for they had won and their deaths would not be in vain.

Jon fell to his knees and gazed up at the sky in wonder, uncaring of the tears cutting though the grime on his cheeks. He cared not for the sting in his eyes at the brightness of the light, he could not tear his eyes away from the dawn and all it represented.

They had won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments as we've gone throughout this story, I invite you all to join me as the story continues in 'A Wreath of Fire' which should have the first chapter posted by the end of next week!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> If you would like to chat to me about my work find me on tumblr @istaricelebelasse


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